Fleet Lark
by ray gower
Summary: StarFleet is not all dull and worthy, sometimes it is just like the real thing
1. USS Tuttenbeck

StarFleet Lark (Vol 1)

**StarFleet Lark**

_A new officer joins his ship._

  


_With apologies to the BBC Light Programme. I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships_.

  


_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

  


_The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun. _

  


_Comments good, bad or indifferent always welcome at [story@thestoryboard.co.uk][1] _

  


_Rated PG_

  


A serious Lieutenant Parbold knocked smartly at the door of the yard superintendents office and entered. Excuse me, Sir. I'm looking for the Tuttenbeck. They said at reception you knew where she was?

Aye lad. You must be the new Comms Officer. W've just finished repairing her, so you'll find her in her usual place on pier thirteen, the corpulent man behind the wooden desk admitted happily.

A small sign on the desk informed Parbold that the happy little man was a Mr Hammit.

Commander Geroff is aboard, Hammit added. I'll take you down shall I. I have to see Geroff anyroads.

I didn't know there was such a big yard here, Parbold commented as they walked down passages towards the furthest corner of the space station. He peered through viewports trying to catch a glimpse of the dock that would hold his new ship.

Appen you won't, Hammit admitted. Too much business locally to need to build much.

Why was Tuttenbeck in for repair? Parbold tried. Was she involved in a battle?

Sort of, Hammit admitted again. 

Think she won, he added mysteriously. 

We had to scrap the other ship. There she is. The pride of Starfleet! He pointed proudly towards a very old and twisted pylon bearing an equally old and twisted Miranda class destroyer.

But she's a wreck! Parbold exclaimed in horror at the sight.

Taken three months to get her in shape, Hammit confessed. I tell you that ship is the safest ship in the galaxy. See that pylon, it were brand new three months ago. Unbreakable them toffee nosed gits at Starfleet reckoned. Fits everything, automatic, absolutely guaranteed, they said. Taken Tuttenbeck three tries to make it fit.

But the warp generators are on different levels, the saucer is twisted and the launcher is pie-eyed! I doubt it could even fire! Parbold gasped, still unable to take his eyes of of the apparition that was to be his new home. Even if it did the torpedo would go straight through the saucer!

Dunno bout that, Hammit admitted. She ain't had to fire one in fifteen years.

Even in the Dominion War? Parbold demanded.

They didn't dare come near enough. Rendered helpless when they saw the old Tutten coming.

With laughter? Parbold suggested cynically. 

He knew somebody at Starfleet had it in for him when he had been posted to this secluded outpost. He had wondered about the pitying looks he had received when he had received the notification, but had simply put it down to the colony being so far from the centre of anywhere. Now he was starting to get a feel at just how badly they wanted him out the way.

Now lad, this is the gangway. Hammit opened a heavy door and gestured for Parbold to enter. After you lad. You can go first. Still not entirely happy with the repairs to the pylon, so we restrict use to one at a time.

Carefully Parbold walked up the tunnel towards what he hoped would be an open airlock as the door behind him clanged shut. The whole frame creaked as he stepped forwards, making him try to hurry but without actually stepping on the floor. The more he hurried the more ominous the creaking.

His nerves were shot by the time he fell out the hatch at the end and suffered a severe bout of relief all over the floor, as the door behind him was slammed shut by an enthusiastic crewman.

Finally he tried to stand upright to find that the strap of the shoulder bag he had been carrying was now caught in the door, the bag on the wrong side.

Oh, hello Lieutenant. Do you know how to work one of these? A mild voice enquired.

Parbold looked around wildly to find a thin bald man in an open jacket and commanders pips addressing him nonchalantly, holding out a child's Rubicks Cube.

Desperately he disengaged himself from the strap of his bag and struggled to his feet trying to make himself presentable. No Sir! Lieutenant Parbold, Sir!

the Commander sighed. I can sometimes get one side. Don't worry about that standing to attention lark, we are quite informal here, unless there is an officer about. Isn't that right Chief?

Oh yeah, right, Sir the crewman that had shut the door so promptly agreed. Mr Hammit is at the door, Sir. Should I let him in?

The commander looked through the portal at the frantic little man. I think the tunnel is leaking again, Chief. You had better make a note of it for the yard, he said mildly.

Noted, Sir. And Mr Hammit?

Ummh? Well, I suppose we can't leave him there can we, so let him in.

You really shouldn't have been so keen for Starfleet to install this new pylon, Hammit, the commander criticised. You know how unsafe they are. Now what can we do for you?

Hammit red in the face and gasping looked up decidedly peeved. You smashed the old one, Geroff, he panted. Knocked it clean off! But if you could avoid doing anything for a few weeks, me an' the lads would be grateful. We ain't had a holiday for twelve months an' the missus, she wants me to take her to Earth for an oliday like?

Do anything? Geroff asked imperiously. You don't expect us to sit on a leaking pylon for a few months while you and your wife go on holiday? We do what Starfleet demand.

I'll have the pylon repaired immediately. I'll move your ship to another pylon and ship you a crate of brandy! Hammit begged. Just don't do anything involving this colony or yard while I'm away, Please!

I'll see what I can do, Geroff agreed. Chief, give Mr Hammit a breathing mask and flood the tunnel for him.

He turned to the spellbound lieutenant. I suppose I had better brief you, he said with disgust. We'll go to my cabin. Follow me. Chief, make sure Mr Parbold's gear gets to his cabin, intact for once.

  


What can't you do Lieutenant? Commander Geroff turned on the young Lieutenant as he handed him a tall glass of brandy. Most of the earlier mild manner missing.

I'm a Comms expert, Sir! Parbold expostulated wildly.

So you can't use a radio? Geroff challenged.

No, Sir. I mean. Yes, Sir! I can Sir!

So what have you done to be wished upon us? Geroff demanded.

Nothing, Sir!

Must've or you wouldn't be here, Geroff insisted. Look deep down Lieutenant. I have the only Vulcan navigating officer in Starfleet that has to take her shoes and socks off to count to four and the only pilot in existence who does not know left from right. What have you done?

Well there was the Admirals daughter, Parbold admitted. I taught her to dance and he didn't see it like that.

He caught you in bed? Geroff suggested, relaxing a little. Let me tell you a few things about this posting. First, half of Starfleet doesn't know we exist, the other half denies we do, anybody that's left doesn't believe we can. The downside is that it means you will never escape on your feet. Your predecessor got out by trying to jump out the airlock. The upside, if you can adapt, is that you will find it the easiest and safest posting in the fleet. We aren't sent out much so annoying details like Where are we? or warp factors aren't a problem and there is plenty of time for other interests like getting drunk.

How long have you been here, Sir? Parbold stammered.

Ten years. Regretted the first two, but not since, Geroff admitted, lifting his glass at the Lieutenant and winking.

If you need anything see Chief Bosun Catchen. He knows where to get it, he added.

  


Parbolds new cabin was more distressing than the rest of the ship. 

Somebody with the artistic expertise of a deranged gorilla on speed had attempted to decorate the cabin. Great splodges of white, blue and yellow paint fairly dripped off the walls; onto the bed and any other furniture as well by the look of it. The floor also bowed upwards towards the edges, it matched the interesting bulge in the outer wall.

He sat glumly in a chair to consider his fortune and fell off. The close examination his prone position allowed found the reason. Somebody had trimmed an inch off the front two legs to allow it to match the curvature of the floor. He assumed it was the same helpful person that had done the same to the table to allow it to sit straight.

It was a pity, he thought, that they hadn't done the same to the bed which also sloped towards the centre of the room. 

A touch of brilliance had him roll up the paint encrusted blanket and thrust it under the edge of the mattress.

It didn't work.

As he sank onto the mattress in despair, the paint hardened blanket acted as a roller, sliding Parbold and mattress gently into the centre of the floor.

He lay back, at least here he couldn't slide any further. Then his kit bag slid off of the dresser where it had been placed by somebody and landed on top of him.

Parbold wanted to go home.

  


He emerged from his cabin some hours later in desperate need for a coffee and finding that the replicator, whilst able to produce coffee, was singularly unable to provide a cup to catch it in. He felt a great deal of compassion for his predecessor, going mad was about the only logical and preferable alternative to serving on this ship.

He staggered drunkenly down the corridors towards what he hoped would be a turbo-lift and the wardroom. He was also sure that corridors in a Miranda weren't designed to undulate and twist, but it wasn't as bad as his room.

He found Chief Catchen with a second crewman prodding at the Turbo Lift door, an open access panel beside it. Prod the one by the blacken, he was offering helpfully as the crewman poured over the terminals inside.

There was a flash and a brief scream as the crewman did as he was told.

Well that ones live as well, the Chief admitted. Must be one of them six that's dead or the door would open!

Why not use a tri-corder? Parbold asked.

Sorry, Sir! Chief Bosun Catchen announced straightening up smartly. They would be the little boxes with little lights nd things, Sir?

Parbold nodded warily.

Ain't got none, Sir, the Chief admitted. I did a deal with the woodyard, Sir. They wanted some fairy lights.

Parbold asked fearfully.

Overalls from the tailor. They needed them to get some beer from the pub, Sir, the Chief explained unhelpfully.

So to get overalls you traded the most useful instrument on the ship?

No Sir! The Chief protested. To get wood, Sir.

What does a Starship need wood for? Parbold demanded.

Your table for one, the Chief admitted. But mainly so I could get replicator parts.

Why not use Starfleet spares? Asked the bewildered Parbold.

Ain't got none, Sir. I traded them.

Please don't tell me, Parbold begged. You traded them for a supply of beer to buy overalls which were swapped for fairy lights from the woodyard?

Actually it was the scrapyard, Sir. But you are catching on, the Chief admitted helpfully. This ain't Starfleet, Sir!

So I see, Parbold admitted. There are a few problems in my quarters, is there any chance of getting them fixed?

I'll see to it as soon as we've got the lift working, Sir. Now you'll be wanting the wardroom, Sir. Third junction in the corridor, turn left and follow the passage down. It's a bit dark cos there's no lights. Wardroom is the third passage on the right, Sir. You only need the lift to get to Engineering and the Bridge, Sir.

Promising officer that un. Lieutenant Parboiled Chief Catchen admitted to his frizzled protégée as he crawled out the access hatch. Already gettin' the ang of things.

  


Parbold was met by a wan grins and Commander Geroff as he entered the wardroom. 

Ah, Lieutenant. There you are. Meet the officers of the Tuttenbeck, Geroff announced happily. First is Lieutenant T'Rizz our Navigator. Beautiful and as thick as two short planks.

Parbold would happily agree to the first, T'Rizz was very attractive, slim and well endowed, topped by short black hair. She grinned at him.

Lieutenant Corbett. Pilot and resident expert on nothing useful, Geroff continued. Thinks he's a ladies man, he continued in a whisper, gesticulating towards the Lieutenant. Trouble is so do they. With that pockmarked face, I keep thinking dartboard. 

And finally the Engineering Officer Lieutenant Commander Gorsh.

Parbold looked the Klingon Engineer up and down very carefully. Looking for the bolt that held his head in place. Wherever it was it needed tightening, his over sized head wobbled frighteningly on narrow shoulders.

That is all the crew? Parbold asked dumbfounded. Surely there is supposed to be thirty officers?

We are short handed, Geroff admitted. But I'm told we do have nearly sixty crewmen on the lower decks and the chief is quite good. Now what can I get you. I don't recommend the local firewater until you've had at least one bottle of brandy. 

And the only way to make the ship look good is to drink two bottles, Corbett called, T'rizz belched an agreement.

  


There was one good thing about a bottle of brandy, Parbold decided some hours later as he poured himself into his mattress on the floor. It made the floors of the corridor look straight. Perhaps two would straighten his room?

  


  


  


  


Revision 7

   [1]: mailto:story@thestoryboard.co.uk



	2. Maggies

StarFleet Lark (Vol 2)

**StarFleet Lark 2**

  


_Parbold learns a little about the characters on his new home territory._

_With apologies to the BBC Light Programme. I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships_.

_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

_The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun. _

_Comments good, bad or indifferent always welcome at [story@thestoryboard.co.uk][1] _

_Rated PG_

  


Some where in the darkness there was a groan from the floor and a mumbling, ..puter ... on!

The owner of the groan obviously expected something to happen and was disappointed by the result. It tried again.

Computer. Lights on! 

The room was bathed in brilliant white light. That wasn't what was wanted either.

Turn em OFF! The voice screamed.

The offended computer did so and descended into a sulk, from which it would not be encouraged.

Instead an arm groped around for a battery lantern. Finding it, it banged it on the ground several times before turning it on. Dim shadows now revealed the owner of the arm as it crawled slowly out of its layers of blankets.

After three weeks and thirty bottles of brandy, Parbold was starting to find the Tuttenbeck easier to live with, thanks largely to the almost permanent stupor. He now felt like a regular. Even the crew had accepted him. 

Captain Geroff had introduced him to his first glass of the local beer. It worked exactly like a bottle of brandy, but quicker and seemingly consisted of an equal mix of meths, turpentine, carbon dioxide and curry powder. If ever there was a product that met all the Description Acts in one easy to understand word, Parbold decided, Blower' certainly achieved it. 

The glass had gone down surprisingly smoothly and he had swallowed the half litre in one manful session. He then wondered why his fellow officers were watching him curiously and edging quietly away from the door. 

It started mildly enough, a thin layer of sweat shrouding his brow. Then he had been drenched in it, followed instantaneously by a desperate urge as his stomach managed to do repeated triple back flips and spins in one smooth and simultaneous action. He missed the head by a full fifteen metres as both ends exploded.

You've got to admit. He's quick on his feet, Geroff observed quietly to the others. I don't think anybody has got that close before.

But that was the night before, his mouth was now as sour as curdled milk and as furry as an Angoran goat. Computer, a glass of water, please? he whispered.

The computer and replicator still sulked.

He sighed and reached into one of the few draws that still opened and pulled out a bottle full of green fluid. He took a swig from it, swilled it around his mouth and swallowed. 

Creme-de-Menthe is not a recommended cure for a hangover, reducing thirst, or for clearing the mouth. But today it tasted as fresh as mountain spring water.

Suitably refreshed he reached for his stained uniform and shrugged it on and staggered towards the door. Geroff had promised to give him a tour of the Bridge, just in case they had to use it.

  


Morning, Sir! Chief Catchen greeted him cheerfully as he staggered off the lift.

Parbold considered him queasily. Wherever he went aboard the ship the Chief Bosun always seemed to be there. He recalled him seeing behind the servery in the Wardroom, doling out something called food and in Sickbay, issuing remedies with the same reckless abandon. It could even have been at the same time.

Cap'n will be up in a moment, Sir, the Chief continued happily, oblivious to the green tinged officer as he collapsed uncomfortably into a chair.

Finally Parbold found his voice. Is there anywhere or thing you don't do? He asked.

Don't paint, Sir, Catchen declared reproachfully.

Another vague memory of two tins of paint appearing in his quarters, flickered across Parbold's mind. He had watched them intently for a full week, wondering if something would happen. But as the day-glow salmon pink was worse than the current daubing he had not taken the obvious solution of doing it himself.

Rather than say anything he settled to examine the Bridge. Like the rest of the ship, Non Regulation' appeared to be the theme.

Most of the bridge stations appeared to be in the usual place. The pilot sat at the front. The navigator probably sat beside him, but he could not see the chair as the Captain's Wilton covered high-winged armchair was in the way. That failed to match the G-Plan' dining chair he was sat in perfectly.

Ah, there you are lieutenant, Geroff observed casually, entering the bridge. Settling in I see. Any problems?

I couldn't help noticing the furniture, Parbold admitted hesitantly.

It's an old ship.

And the wallpaper?

Geroff examined the floral walls as if for the first time. Quite attractive don't you think? He asked. Put it up myself. Besides you've seen the paint the Chief supplies.

And the consoles. I don't think they belong on a Miranda?

Some of them don't belong on a Starship, let alone a Miranda, Geroff admitted. But yours came of a Klingon Bird of Prey. Bright chap like you should have no problem deciphering them.

T'Riz and Corbett slinked quietly onto the Bridge and took their stations. T'Riz almost disappeared when she took hers.

I thought we ought to give you a tour of the home patch, Geroff commented in explanation. Then you will know where the sights are. Take her out Mr Corbett.

You might want to hold onto your seat, he added quietly.

Parbold watched as Lieutenant Corbett cracked his fingers like a concert piano player then laid them dramatically on what ought to have been his touch screen control panel. This one looked as if it was actually a large canteen tray with various switches haphazardly punched into it.

His attention was then redirected to the viewscreen as a screeching sound filtered through to the bridge. It clearly showed the pylon that Tuttenbeck had been safely attached to by Hammit and his workers while he was off on holiday, start to twist. Obviously Corbett had engaged forward thrust and not a gentle push to the side.

Contact was lost with a loud screech and a Twang' and Parbold omitting to take the Captains advice was propelled heavily to the floor.

Not bad, Geroff suggested. Another few breakaways like that and pier 9 will match ours. I think Maggies first Mr Corbett.

Parbold picked himself gingerly off the floor and resumed his seat. The excursion had given him the opportunity to observe why T'Rizz had disappeared. Her seat was a large garden mushroom, complete with red domed top and white spots. It left her head less than 500 mm above the console that she was clinging to.

"Can I use Warp, Sir?" Corbett demanded hopefully from his seat. "I can go the long way round it won't take any longer."

"Mr Corbett. Maggies is less than thirty minutes at full impulse," Geroff put the eager Lieutenant down firmly. "We are not wasting precious time on your boy racer tendencies or T'Riz's dubious navigation."

"I've been reading up, Sir!" T'Riz protested.

"No!" Geroff declared. "I want to get there and back today!"

Muttering between themselves, Corbett and T'Riz set the Tuttenbeck on course.

If Parbold had expected 'Maggies' to be anything other than a bar he would have been sadly disappointed. As it was cyncisim and a certain amount of common sense led him to suspect one. It meant he was at least partly right: It was a bar, but a huge one; a Nebula Starship could comfortably fit in the hall.

The real surprise came in the proprietor herself.

Parbold had never seen anything with two legs that big. At 6 metres tall and at least that across, she probably made up a sizeable proportion of the mass of the small asteroid they were on herself.

"A small genetic accident," Geroff explained as she spyed the arriving contingent and made her way between the widely spaced tables with a sort of toppling rolling motion, each forward fall caught by a leg the diameter of a mature redwood. "She was born here. Crushed her parents to death at the age of four and they sort of built this place around her. Really lovely girl."

"Ah Capitan. You come see me so little!" At 100 metres Maggie's voice rolled like thunder. At fifty Parbold was grabbing for the nearest table. "You want usual table and food?"

"Can't stop Maggie," Geroff apologised. "We're just here to show Lieutenant Parbold the sights."

"And you brought him to see Maggie! The Capitan is clever, No? He knows the best sights," The thunderous voice now took on the ominous tone of a gurgle

From somewhere above a hand the size of a Chesterfield sofa appeared, grabbed Parbold by the waist and whisked him off the floor before he had the chance to run for safety.

After a few moments he risked opening his eyes again and found himself gazing into a huge, round and friendly face. The face winked at him, then a cavern opened as it blew the terrified Lieutenant a kiss.

"He's cute," Maggie announced dropping Parbold gently to the floor. "But too much like a Vulcan twig. Why your Starfleet no send real men?" 

"You leave him to Maggie. Maggie make him a real man in a week or two?" She nudged Geroff with a huge finger, sending him reeling towards a table.

"Now you sit at table. Maggie say you all need feeding proper," she chortled on happily, ushering them to a table with the threat of an open hand.

"Think you're made," Geroff remarked happily. "Maggie's taken a liking for you."

"Of course under Federation law, at fourteen she is still too young to marry, or run a bar," he added, climbing onto a chair. "But if she decides to make something of it, I certainly won't try to stop it. Besides this place is so peaceful it would be ruined if we let the law get in the way."

Parbold, still winded by the crushing hand said little as he gingerly felt his chest for the bones he knew must have been crushed. He had once seen the historic film King Kong and had come out thinking Fay-Rae had made too much of the experience. Now he had some sympathy for the woman.

Maggie approached the table again. Advancing with the inexorable progress of a planet in orbit, she approached bearing two trays. In her hands they looked like ordinary tea trays, each bearing a soup bowl.

Arriving at the table Parbold realised it was an illusion. They were actually the size of wardrobe doors, the bowls the size of small lakes. They also contained what could only be described as a gigantic loaf of bread. His stomach quavered at the thought of the thick brown ooze the bowls contained. You could swim in it, probably drown in it. Eating the entire contents seemed unlikely.

"You in hurry, Capitan," Maggie complained. "Maggie un'erstand. Just bring gumbo as snack, yes?"

"Thank you, Maggie. Gumbo will be adequate," Geroff assured her.

"I get other trays," Maggie declared happily.

"Other trays?" Parbold queried uncertainly. "Surely this is for everybody?"

"All a matter of scale," Geroff observed. "Maggie hasn't got one. She will be tremendously upset if you don't eat it. You really don't want to upset her."

"Besides it is very good stuff. Just avoid the green bits and don't ask what is in it," he added as he selected his first spoonful with care.

Parbold with the care of a man in a minefield sipped at the ladle that formed his first spoonful. Geroff's opinion of good often had his tastebuds curling up his tongue and try to burry it in the back of his throat. To his surprise the gumbo was actually edible, a sense of chocolate and honey oiled itself across his tongue, counterpointing the sharp bite of chili in perfect harmony.

"But why is she still here?" Parbold asked after a short while.

"Why on Earth should she want to go anywhere else?" Geroff demanded. "She has friends here. Why go and be anonymous on Earth. It would be cruel!"

Parbold doubted something the size of Maggie would be anonymous anywhere, but sensibly refrained from saying anything.

"Besides," Corbetts voice called from the other side of the table. "We would have to tow her! Starships aren't designed to carry anything that big, at least not one that moves on its own."

  


After an hour and barely a dent upon the lake in front of him, Parbold was starting to feel quite ill. His stomach yearning for the release offered by a litre of blower, but it was not a beverage offered in Maggies and her Rum simply did not have the instant power.

"Chief," Geroff said seeing the Lieutenant roll off his chair with a glooping noise. "I think Mr Parbold has had enough. You know what to do with the remains?"

"Sir!"

  


Parbold did not remember most of the rest of the tour. Except that it included visits to at least another nine bars. All served their own variety of high octane alcohol and they took their inevitable effect. Consequently he missed Tuttenbecks return to her dock by virtue of being in the toilet.

The crash as she mated with the pylon threw him hard against the door. He sank slowly to the floor. He lay there, his stomach too full to move and him too inebriated to want to. A night in the loo seemed like a safe bet.

  


  


  


  


  


Sun 26/Aug 01

Mon 03/Sep 01

Wed 29/Aug 01

2309

Revision 9

   [1]: mailto:story@thestoryboard.co.uk



	3. Torpedo Troubles

StarFleet Lark 3

**StarFleet Lark 3**

**Torpedo Troubles**

_Tuttenbeck receives a supplies and a problem._

_With apologies to the BBC Light Programme. I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antipathy of boringly efficient Federation Starships._

_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

_The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun. _

_Comments good, bad or indifferent always welcome at _[_story@thestoryboard.co.uk_][1]__

_Rated PG_

"If you could just sign here, Lieutenant Parbold. Then I can get on and unload?" the Captain of the supply freighter suggested.

"Oh, yeah, right!" Parbold agreed helpfully, taking the PADD and entered his signature code. "Anything big?"

"I think there is a spare Warp Core," the Captain offered.

"That might cheer Gorsh up. Tuttenbeck hasn't had one for a while. The Captain might even risk a short warp burst, just to prove she can still do it."

The Captain exploded in laughter. "Hit warp in that thing and the next thing she will hit is planets as she flies apart."

"Tuttenbeck is a good ship!" Parbold protested loyally. "Not her fault she's a bit bent. Besides it adds character!"

"Is that what they call it now-a-days," The Captain laughed. "Now don't worry about beaming the stuff over. We'll do it ourselves." 

He hurried away and Parbold turned to his other duties as officer of the day. Which in his case meant largely sitting in the Captains Wilton armchair wondering what it would be like to command a real Starship.

Parbold was surprised a little later on by an agitated call from Chief Catchen. "The stuff from the supply drop, Mr Parbold, Sir?"

"Yes Chief?"

"Where exactly are we supposed to put the torpedoes, Sir?" 

"In the magazine, Chief?" Parbold suggested with sarcasam in his voice. "That is where a torpedo normally goes."

"Yes, Sir," the Chief agreed placidly. "And with four in the tubes we can carry 24."

"So what's the problem there was only four on the manifest. I know we haven't got a full torpedo load?"

"There was a four on the manifest, Sir," the Chief agreed patiently. "But you missed the letter afterwards." 

"It was a 'K', Sir," he added helpfully. "We are the proud owners of 4,000 MkIV Photon Torpedoes."

What are we going to do with that many? The horrified Parbold exclaimed. 

Never mind, Sir. I'm sure there will be something I can do with 'em, the Chief decided.

Geroff was in a good mood when he turned into the gallery leading to Tuttenbeck's docking station. It was rare that he actually had a day off from the ship, this time he had had three. It was pointless leaving it to T'Riz and Corbett, somebody could steal the ship and they would never know the difference. Young Parbold however was proving to be quite promising. He seemed to take orders seriously and did not ask too many of the wrong questions. 

Now all Geroff had to do, was finish the preparations for the Diplomatic Party'. Hammit had confirmed that the supply ship had arrived and departed so even that was a formality.

His good humour was dented somewhat when he was faced with twelve long cases stacked carefully in the gangway, then shattered totally when he read the labels.

Ah, there you are Lieutenant, he seized upon the unfortunate Parbold as he boarded. Would you care to explain why there are a dozen torpedoes on the concourse?

There wasn't room in the stores, Parbold admitted.

No room for dangerous weapons? Geroff questioned warily. That stores only had a couple of rats and a few cases in it three days ago. What is in it now?

4008 torpedo cases, including Tuttenbeck's.

What in blue blazes did you accept 4,000 torpedoes for? Geroff exploded.

It was incorrectly listed on the manifest, Parbold explained defensively. 

And you didn't physically check?

It was a Starfleet supply ship, Sir! Parbold exclaimed righteously. 

All the more reason to check. Those buggers will rob you blind, Geroff informed him harshly. So what are you going to do with them? I assume you tried to get the supply ship to take them away again?

They were in a hurry to get away. Said they were running late, Sir. We didn't find out until after they had left

I'm not surprised, some of those things are older than this ship. They must have scoured every store in Starfleet for them!

The Chief reckons he can lose a few to the Undertaker, Sir? Parbold offered hopefully.

Except for him to use 4,000 of the damned things we would need an epidemic of such a size even Starfleet would notice, Geroff pointed out. Are the rest of the supplies here?

Yes, Sir. Chief and I checked them, Parbold agreed quickly, thankful that he had achieved one correct action. Can't we use a few, Sir? He ventured hopefully.

What on? Geroff demanded. I haven't used a torpedo in twelve years! You are also assuming that those tubes work, they certainly haven't been tested by us. That they don't fire the torpedo straight into us, you must have noticed which way the tubes are pointing? And we can actually remember how the damned things are fired. Besides why disturb the spiders in the tubes, just so you can have a bang?

But StarFleet protocols? Parbold offered.

Sod Geroff snapped viciously. Okay. I'll have a word with Supply and see if I can get them to take them back. Get me a copy of the requisition, the manifest and any other paperwork.

We aren't taking them back into stores! A corpulant supply officer chortled over the view screen. We've been trying to get rid of them for fifteen years. It took us nearly two weeks to put the shipment together, had to pick them up from supply depots from here to the edge of the galaxy.

And what ship in the fleet is still able to fire Mk IV torpedoes? Geroff asked mildly. Let alone want them?

Not our problem, Supply informed him happily. Perhaps your ship is out of date?

Geroff bridled at the implied snub. 

Besides it was what was on your supply requisition.

Ah yes the requisition, Geroff sighed picking out a PADD from the half dozen on the table. It so happens that my people have made a copy of what we actually asked for. It significantly failed to ask for torpedoes, in any form.

So have I, Supply gurgled glancing at another screen. It says 4000 KIV Torpedoes. 

Would you care to spell torpedo? Geroff challenged. My copy says quite clearly 4,000 Kiv Tortilas, part TOR4356890Zed2I7. They seem to have been left off of the drop?

4000 KIV Tortilas, part TOR 4356 890 2217, Supply declared looking at the screen beside him, his voice fading away. I see the problem. You quoted the wrong part number. We don't check descriptions. We use part numbers, Supply rallied proudly. 

Wrong Part Number? Geroff exclaimed. It's your stupid part number system and your inability to understand the difference between a Zed and a 2. Let alone the fact that not many ships can possibly ask for four thousand torpedoes. It's not as though we are at war! And I needed those Tortilas for an important diplomatic function!

Dunno what you hicks get up to. Well it don't matter any. We still aren't having them back, just make sure they are all accounted for at stock take. You can try re-requisitioning your Tortilas. 

The comms link went blank and Geroff stared at it in disbelief.

Finally he sank back in his chair. I'm going to get lynched. You know that don't you? He said accusingly to Parbold. I promised the Mayaks something a little dangerous for this months party. Persuaded Um'Gooh to spice up his curry for them special.

The Mayaks, Sir? Parbold asked in confusion. I thought it was a diplomatic party?

He had met a couple on the base. Small, green and above all smelly humanoids, the Mayaks were the Galactic equivalent of goats, able to go anywhere and eat almost anything and had a racially inbuilt death wish. They were not technically a breach of the Prime Directive. They had not developed any form of warp drive, simply stolen it. They had apparently found the colony some fifteen years ago and had simply moved in like invading Tinkers. Generally they did no damage and the colonists ignored them because of their ability to carry out the most dangerous tasks the colony could provide. If StarFleet had an official policy, Parbold did not know what it was, nor it appeared, did StarFleet when he had asked. They were simply another item on his growing list of Things Not to Discuss in Polite Parties'.

Geroff, however liked them. Perhaps because they did not turn their noses up at the sight of Tuttenbeck. Whatever the reason, they were regular visitors and he was in an active contest with Ny'Lyck their leader to find something they would not eat or do and survive.

It also explained the use of Um'Gooh's curry and the spicy Kiv's. The curry in particular bore public health warnings and was banned on at least three planets. Parbold, in respect to his fast disappearing taste buds, had refused to try one as soon as he saw the typically mushroom shaped cloud that hung over the plate.

It is diplomatic for us not to disappoint the Mayaks, Geroff declared. Who do you think supplies Hammit with the parts to keep this old tub running. Certainly not a Supply Branch that can't tell the difference between a crispy pancake and a torpedo!

I'll talk to the Ferrengi traders, Parbold offered contritely. They might be able to offer something in place of the tortillas.

Do that, Geroff accepted. Just don't let the bastards rob you for them. I'd better see the Chief.

A torpedo mis-fired its motor and shot off around the warehouse. A terrified crewman Williams, his tunic caught in the access hatch flying with it, his legs flying behind.

The torpedo, not designed to carry weight on its back, veered as he struggled and flew barely 3M over Chief Catchen's head.

The Chief roared unsympathetically. I told you to disarm the damned thing. Not go for a blasted joy-ride. Turn it off and get down here before you damage it!

His demand was met with another scream as Williams seeing a wall approaching struggled again, sending the torpedo off in a new direction.

Commander Geroff entered the warehouse. Spotting the Chief standing in the centre he made his way resolutely towards him, ignoring the frantic crewman, still riding his wild charge.

"How are you doing, Chief?" He enquired quietly.

"Just making some of the torpedoes safe, Sir," Chief Catchen reported. 

"Just Williams' decided to go for a ride," he continued nodding in the direction of the unfortunate crewman as he performed erratic circles over their heads. "Just as well the motors are as shot as the warheads."

Yes, I noticed, Geroff commented placidly. He seems to be getting the hang of it though! At present Williams had managed to wrap his legs around the casing and was riding it like a Bucking Bronco', except he was upside down.

They stood and watched Crewman Williams doing several more laps of the warehouse, until he crashed into a stack of crates.

"Chief?" Geroff asked thoughtfully as the dust settled.

"Sir?"

"How many torpedoes have you made safe?"

"Seven, plus the one Williams has just crashed, Sir."

"Chief?"

"Sir?"

"Does your brother still do engineering jobs?"

"Sir!"

"I want a few modifications made to the dis-armed torpedoes by tomorrow night."

Parpold marched up. "Got your Tortillas, Sir!" He announced proudly. "Plus three more cases of brandy. Got them from Tralog. Oh hello Chief."

"And the cost?" Geroff enquired mildly.

"We turn a blind eye to his next shipment of grain," Parbold admitted.

"Not bad," Geroff admitted. "But he got away cheap. Before you sign off for the day pass a tip to StarFleet about it. They can intercept Tralog at the Nebula Pass. He'll have sold half his hooch by then, so he'll make a profit and he'll be well out of our patch so we won't have broken your promise."

On the whole, Geroff reflected, preparing for bed 60 hours later. It had been a good week.

The Tortilla's Parbold had acquired were not as strong as Kiv's. But Ny'Lyck had agreed that the curry had been a good try, after clearing several plates, a side order of parafin wax firelighters and giving a belch that would melt eyebrows at ten paces. But it was the modified torpedoes that had been a hit. Geroff had offered the Mayak's them as personal transport, explaining that the leather effect saddle and stirrups were there for them to sit upon whilst being transported. The Mayak's had fallen on them with relish, quickly getting the hang of the basic commands they had been programmed with, forward, backward, left, right, up and down and so on and were soon chasing each other around the warehouse. They particularly liked the command Faster' but had definite problems getting a grasp of the command Stop', preferring to hit something instead, the harder the better. Geroff wondered how the race continued to exist.

StarFleet had managed to arrest Tralog with 5,000 litres of contraband liquor. So they were happy, and it lifted the Tuttenbeck slightly off the bottom basement of opinion at StarFleet. Tralog was not worried by the fine either, he did not have a buyer for the surplus and had already made his money on the other 15,000 litres.

That only left the remainder of the torpedoes. The Chiefs brother had already made a bid for those that would keep the ship in essentials for several years to come, so Geroff had set the Chief to the task of overseeing their disarming. 

Geroff was particularly looking forward to returning the warheads to stores as Part Zed986324 (Part Engine Defective), instead of Part 2986324 (Warhead Torpedo). With a little luck it would be the same supply ship that took the potentially lethal heads, even better it might not get back to Earth, though he would miss the inevitable running around by stores as they tried to find somewhere to lose them.

No it had been a good week.

  


  


  


  
  


Sun 09/Sep 01

Sun 30/Sep 01

Sat 29/Sep 01

2410

Revision 9

   [1]: mailto:story@thestoryboard.co.uk



	4. In search of Coffee

**StarFleet Lark 4**

**In Search of Coffee**

_A small problem with the replicators aboard USS Tuttenbeck forces her crew into desperate measures_

_With apologies to the BBC Light Programme. I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships._

_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

_The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun. _

_Comments good, bad or indifferent always welcome at __story@thestoryboard.co.uk_

_Rated PG_

  


Lieutenant Parbold examined his mug carefully. It was the same one he had acquired a month ago from the Captains quarters and he had cherished it accordingly. Giving the inside an experimental wipe he decided the deep stains inside did not constitute either a new life form, sentient or otherwise, or a major risk to life, at least not yet. Thus reassured he approached the replicator. "Computer, coffee. Please." 

Somewhere in the internals of the replicator a light flashed and the appearance of a cup in brown liquid formed, then splashed into the carefully positioned and interestingly shaped tray in the bottom. 

The tray itself had been the product of another replicator fault. He had naively asked for some strawberry jam. The resultant molten mass may have tasted of strawberry, at over three hundred degrees he wasn't going to risk trying, but when it had slowly solidified, it had become something a whole lot more useful, a removable tray to catch what ever was produced, yet was immune from the wayward replicators activities.

He picked up the tray and decanted the liquid contents into the cup, before taking a sip. Then spat it out violently. 

The replicator had gone too far this time. Not only was it cold, but it had also managed to miss coffee from the list of desirable features, producing mud.

He headed for the door and the Mess.

  


"Who's been confusing the damned computer this time?" Geroff demanded bursting into the Mess. "It won't even produce coffee now!" 

He glared furiously at Gorsh and Parbold, the only candidates in the Mess. "Not another of those stupid ritual Klingon war celebrations or Strawberry Jam?"

Both shook their heads.

"Where's Corbett and T'Rizz?"

Again they both shook their heads.

Geroff grunted. "Prepare to break orbit," he demanded. "I'll find the others."

  


Geroff found his two missing officers as he had suspected in one particular empty quarter on deck 5. It was the only room on the ship that wasn't bent to hell and technically reserved for guests. Not that Tuttenbeck ever had any. So Corbett had taken it over for his budding Harem.

He had made a good job of it as well, Geroff reflected. The long tapestries that covered the walls and even longer shag pile carpets must have been a devils own job to procure. He did not imagine that his amorous Lieutenant acquired them fairly.

He stopped to listen to the activities before risking entering further.

"Tizzy, I made it for you," Corbett cajoled. "It took two days to replicate. It kept getting it wrong."

At least he knew who had dumbfounded the computer, Geroff decided sourly.

"It is a candle," T'Rizz observed patiently.

"But it is scented with exotic oils," Corbett explained. "I thought we could use it to meditate?"

"I do not meditate," T'Rizz said bluntly. "It will also form a fire hazard."

Obviously the lieutenant had assumed one of those 'kicked puppy' looks that so often melted any female he encountered. T'Rizz's next words were a lot gentler and softer. "It is an interesting shape," she conceded. "The bulge in the end and ridges in the side suggest a purpose. Is it phallic?"

"It's better than that," Corbett urged. "If we light it, you'll see!"

It was too much for Geroff as his mind went into overdrive. "Okay you two. That's enough!" He called barging through the drapes to face his surprisingly still dressed officers and just as the candle spluttered into whistling a tune.

"An Index Candle!" He gaped in a mixture of astonishment and disappointment.

He rallied quickly. "You two on the Bridge now!"

"But we're off-duty!" Corbett whined.

"Not now you're not," Geroff snapped. "Punishment for beggaring up the computer."

  


Tuttenbeck launched itself at the unsuspecting universe with its customary screech of tortured metal and turned ponderously on a direction. For once neither was Corbett's fault. 

It was not Parbold's either, though he was sat at the pilots console, on Geroff's impatient command. The ship seemed to have definite views on detaching itself from the safety of the space station, the lateral thrusters were simply not man enough. In the end he had tried just a touch of Impulse, only to find that the indicators shot straight to half impulse and refused to come down again. 

The direction, also arbitrary, was the only one he could get the ship to maintain, that did not mean flying directly through the docks.

"Well upto Corbett's standards," Geroff complimented from behind, as T'Rizz and Corbett appeared. "But I didn't hear the twang! Now who is abroad today?"

"There is a Klingon Warbird, Captain?" T'Rizz volunteered taking her station.

"No good. They can't make coffee either," Geroff complained. "Besides they shoot back."

Silence as T'Rizz scanned again.

"A federation freighter?"

"They'll complain."

A longer silence. Then, "I have a Ferrengi ship?"

"Whose?"

"Quirl," T'Rizz admitted. "Manifest says grain."

"Perfect!" Geroff declared. "That little crook is bound to be doing something he shouldn't. I feel a health and safety inspection coming on. Set course Mr Corbett."

"Won't they complain as well?" Parbold asked curiously, not at all certain he knew what his Captain was planning, but taking his communications console dutifully.

"Not if we find something," Geroff explained as they waited for T'Rizz and Corbett to complete their calculations, "and we always find something on a Ferrengi ship. Besides nobody ever listens to them. Starfleet don't and as the little buggers keep coming back they don't either."

"Course set, Sir. We will have to use warp," Corbett announced happily.

"How much warp?"

"Warp 3, Sir!"

"Very well. Warp 5," Geroff agreed. "Then we will have a little time for T'Rizz to come up with a new course."

On normal starships of Parbold's acquaintance, entering warp was generally a smooth, if rapid, transition. The ship idled along then the stars blurred. On some ships there was a change to the frequency of the subdued background hum as the engines increased power. But that was it, there was no sensation. But that was in normal ships and this was the Tuttenbeck, a vessel that had never heard of the word 'Normal'. He gripped the safety straps he had quietly installed under his station in anticipation of the event.

He was, therefore, amazed to see the screen blur in the normal fashion as Tuttenbeck tripped the Warp Barrier without a murmur, just like a normal ship. 

Him letting go of the straps and starting to open his mouth to say something about the non-event was the ships signal to spring it's surprise. Tuttenbeck lurched hard sideways as it reached warp 3, then span sickeningly. Parbold renewed his acquaintance with the floor.

"The starboard generator still gets hic-coughs," Geroff complained as Corbett brought a form of normality to proceedings. "Make a note of it, Mr Parbold. Hammit can at least clear that, even if he can't fix the replicators!"

  


"The new book on navigation must be good, we're barely a light year from where we are supposed to be," Geroff observed caustically two hours later.

"I know where I went wrong, Sir!" T'Rizz responded quickly. "I multiplied instead of added our original position."

"Perhaps you did," Geroff agreed. "But it still doesn't help that you can't read the numbers. Now where is the Ferrengi?"

"There, Sir! 500,000 Km off to port and approaching," T'Rizz announced proudly, panning and magnifying the view screen to pick up the fleeting shape of the Ferrengi trader.

"Fine. We'll wait until he's a little closer. No need to upset his game just yet," Geroff decided. "What can we raid him for?"

  


"It's the Tuttenbeck," Clorn, Quirl's second in command and youngest son, warned looking around at his father. "Shall I change course? We can outrun them. Or do we fight?" He had travelled with his father often enough to know of the decrepit Starfleet vessel that formed Federation law, but not enough to know the people that crewed it.

Quirl hissed at his sons enthusiasm and un-Ferrengi desire to fight before enlightening him. "If we fire on humans, more turn up. They are worse than parasites and there is no profit. If we attempt to outrun them we will not leave the sector. Geroff knows more shortcuts than the Grand Negis, even if he didn't Starfleet would look for us. Besides all they will find is an honest cargo of grain. The phasor parts are hidden in the replicators and the liquor under 150,000 tonnes of grain. They won't find them. They might find the coffee of course, but Geroff drinks too much of it to care about that."

"But they will prevent us following the Rules of Acquisition!"

"Open hailing frequencies," Quirl demanded ignoring Clorn's bleating.

"Human," Quirl commenced as Geroff appeared. "We are honest traders, why does your attitude suggest interception?"

"Honest and Ferrengi are not terms very often used together, Quirl," Geroff opined mildly. "But you are right we are intercepting you. I understand you have a cargo of grain. There is a rumour of weevil infestation. We need to inspect it."

"There is no such thing!" Quirl poured scorn on the idea.

"Would I going through all this if there wasn't?" Geroff protested innocently. "Come along Quirl. If there is no problem then you won't lose anything. If there is, you will no doubt attempt to claim compensation. If you refuse to be checked and you spread the infestation then the fine will wipe out your profits for the next few years at least!"

Reluctantly Quirl agreed. But he attempted to throw a brick in the face of progress, by refusing personal access to Geroff.

"That's fine," Geroff agreed happily. "You serve the worst drinks in the sector. I'll send my number two, Lieutenant Parbold." 

"He's only been here a few months," he added nonchalantly.

"Thank you, Sir!" Parbold stammered in surprise at the sudden responsibility after Quirl signed off.

"You would have to go anyhow," Geroff observed amiably. "You're the only one that looks as though he knows what he is doing with one of the new tri-corders. Besides the Chief and Gorsh will look after you. Just remember, whatever he offers first is only worth one ten-thousandth of what he has stashed away. You can put your own price on things then."

"Accept a bribe?" Parbold exclaimed in horror. 

Geroff looked pained. "I never said that, Mr Parbold!" He protested. "Besides it's against regulations. Just remember the true value of what they've got hidden! If they offer a cup of fresh coffee, then they've fifty tonnes of it stashed away that hasn't been declared. Personally, I'd take the coffee, it's not worth the paperwork!"

  


You are Lieutenant Parboiled? The short stooped figure of Quirl requested obsequiously.

Parbold corrected.

Whatever. Perhaps you would accept some hospitality. I can assure you there is nothing wrong with our grain.

We've got to check, Parbold explained flourishing a brand new tri-corder at the Ferrengi. Captain Geroff was quite explicit about the dangers.

I'm sure we can discuss it. Perhaps over a fresh coffee? Quirl suggested. There is no need to examine anything.

And what are you going to do with the other fifty tonnes? Parbold demanded before he could catch himself.

Other fifty tonnes? Quirl looked puzzled for a moment, then his face opened into a broken tooth grin. Humans must have their little jokes. I am an honest trader, Quirl crawled.

It is real Earth coffee, he added. Mellow roasted.

"You go ahead, Sir," Chief Catchen encouraged, it would remove at least the frighteningly honest lieutenant. "Lieutenant Gorsh and I have done this before. We know all the signs, so you won't have to get dirty, or nuffin. And if we are in anyway suspicious we'll call!"

Parbold weakened. Even when the replicator worked the coffee always tasted metallic. I suppose we could just leave Lieutenant Gorsh and Chief Catchen to it? he suggested thoughtfully. Unless there is something suspicious we won't need to examine closely?

Of course not, Quirl encouraged. This was what humans called 'Taking candy from a Baby', the lieutenant was going to be that gullible. The other two, obviously bereft of any form of electronic examination were unlikely to find anything, even if it existed, which Quirl doubted.

It made him wonder what Geroff really wanted.

  


Is that the new Starfleet issue tricorder? Clorn asked, supplying yet another freshly brewed coffee to the lieutenant. 

Not yet. But it will be! Parbold admitted enthusiastically. It was sent to me by a friend. It's the only one in the sector, you know. I never let go of it.

Good is it?

It has over sixty thousand settings, Parbold agreed, placing it proudly on the table for all to see and enthuse over, with an option card that allows it to be enhanced with another 150,000 user defined settings. All controlled by thirty of the latest 2M Terra-hertz neural iso-linear transputer chips. Nearly as much processing power as a Galaxy Class Starship!

We can offer you a good price for it? Clorn offered quickly.

I couldn't sell it! Parbold exclaimed. They aren't even on the market yet!

Of course not, Quirl interceded on Parbolds behalf. But eying the tool with disguised interest. It would be worth as much as all his cargo on the black market.

"Perhaps you could demonstrate?" He added. "We Ferrengi like to keep track of the latest technology."

"Oh, Yes!" Parbold exclaimed happily, pleased that somebody should be taking an interest at last. 

Geroff and the others had been singularly unimpressed by his latest toy. Even after demonstrating its potential by detecting several illegal impurities in the ships latest and as yet unopened crates of alcohol. Though Geroff had suggested to the Chief that they should be exchanged.

"For instance," Parbold explained, tapping a code into his box and leaping to his feet to waft it at one of the replicators. "I can set it to do a broadband scan of your replicator. Then compare that against another."

Before he could be stopped he was approaching a second. "Of course," he babbled on. "It checks for any signs of some three thousand other known bio and mechanical replicator errors at the same time!"

A small indicator light lit upon the tricorders panel and a series of figures scrolled across the screen.

"Hello! I wonder what that means?" He said in puzzlement, groping through his pockets.

"What?" Klorn and Quirl demanded in unison.

"This error," Parbold admitted, pulling out the six PADD's containing the manual. "It says 'Error 10,JRT,458,FUD'," he explained. "It will be in one of these. I think errors are in volume 4. I'll find it in a mo."

The index in volume 4 quickly referred him to volume 3. This in turn, as is the want of all such manuals, by more tortuous route to volume 2 and finally to an appendix in volume 6.

"Here it is!" He declared enthusiastically to his spellbound Ferrengi hosts.

Then progressively more alarmed. "Oh!" then, "Oh dear!" and "Oh dear me!" finally "Oh dear me. That's not right!"

Quirl finally gave into his impatience at the slowly growing, but uninformative sentence. "What is it?"

"Ah yes well," Parbold stammered. "You haven't used the replicators in say the last month have you?"

"Of course we have!" Clorn spat.

"It's just that it says here that your replicators are harbouring a very serious viral infection called," he read carefully off the screen, "Mebalious-Infracoutron-Diabolica." 

"It can be quite lethal," he added for the benefit of the now alarmed Ferrengi. "I have to inform the Captain."

Geroff surprisingly seemed unsurprised by the call from his excited lieutenant. "You've found weevil?" He demanded.

"No, Sir. The chief hasn't come back from the hold," he admitted, momentarily lost. "I've found something more serious, Sir? Mebalious-Infracoutron-Diabolica in the replicator system."'

"What's that?" Geroff demanded, then recovered himself. "Never mind, I'll check up with Starfleet and get back to you."

  


It was nearly an hour before Geroff came back. In that time Parbold had sent the chief and Gorsh to turn every replicator on the ship off. Now he was trying to pacify the crew that was now alarmed at the prospect of having to eat their cargo in the absence of working replicators.

"I've checked with Starfleet," he announced. "I assume nobody has developed the full thing yet, as you aren't scraping them off the walls. It makes you explode apparently. Has anybody over there suffered symptoms of light headedness or dizziness. It is the first sign of it being caught?"

"There was Nelag. He had those symptoms!" Clorn offered. "We thought he had eaten some iritating human food!"

"I'll have medication transferred," Geroff agreed. "I'm told the side effects are quite interesting, but it is better than actually catching 'Diabolicus'. The replicators will have to be removed of course. Apparently it can affect bio-neural systems as well."

"What do you mean the replicators have to be removed?" Quirl hissed.

"You will have to follow us back to the yard. There we will have to physically remove them from the ship and conduct a thorough inspection to ensure it hasn't spread to your other systems, for safety. Then in the fullness o time you can install new ones." Geroff explained slowly. "That could take twelve months though now a third of the trading fleet in this sector is now out of commission. It appears that you may be very lucky that it has been found before it has got too far!"

"I can't be out of action that long! I don't believe you!" Quirl exclaimed falling over himself in an attempt to dissuade the Starfleet human.

"Of course you could get a second opinion," Geroff accepted. "I recommend Doctor Zarrat at the Vulcan Institute of Medicine. He's the expert."

"I suppose we could," Geroff started thoughtfully a few minutes silence. "No we couldn't. No forget I even mentioned it."

"Yes?" Quirl asked. 

"I can have the replicators removed here and now and you can limp on to Stadros, drop your cargo and replace your replicators at the same time? There is always spares there. Must be, it's a major distribution colony. Obviously if you come back with us I will have to condemn your ship as dangerous until it was repaired."

"You know how regulations are?" he added apologetically.

"I accept," Quirl accepted immediately. "And a clean bill of health for weevil infection?"

"We didn't find any," Geroff pointed out.

  


"I tip my hat to you, lieutenant," Geroff observed some hours later as the Tuttenbeck rammed her docking pylon. "You actually had me thinking there might actually be something amiss on Quirl's ship today!"

"But there was!" Parbold exclaimed. "Wasn't there?"

Geroff shook his head. "I checked up, it can't exist in Ferrengi replicators. They aren't controlled by neural-chips and you didn't tune the tricorder to suit their replicators."

"But you said Doctor Zarrat at the Vulcan Institute could confirm the readings?" Parbold exclaimed.

"Who would doubt a Vulcan, eh?" Geroff grinned. "Actually he's one of the chief's brother-in-laws and he works in their computer virus section. Now when would you like your replicator fitted?"

"But the Ferrengi. They'll never trust me again when they find out!" Parbold moaned.

"We are the authority. They never trusted you anyhow. But perhaps they won't try to con you now," Geroff offered. 

  


  
  


  
  


  


  


  



	5. Tuttenbeck to the Rescue

**Tuttenbeck to the Rescue**

_Tuttenbeck is called upon to save Star Fleet's latest ship and arrest a renegrade. _

_With apologies to the BBC Light Programme. I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships._

_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

_The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun. _

_Comments good, bad or indifferent always welcome at __story@thestoryboard.co.uk_

_Rated PG_

  


"Coffee!" Parbold decreed.

Without a murmer a cup containing hot coffee appeared in the replicator. Not a remarkable feat to many starship crews. But for Parbold having the two appear simultaeneously, without having to beg or perform strange mating rituals with the device was nothing less than amazing. In the four months since Chief Catchen had installed the modified Ferrengi device it had not failed once and he was still taking childish delight in trying different voice commands. The challenge now, to find a command it would not accept.

He was about to try the more perverse demand for a hot Irish Coffee Ice Cream when Crewman Williams' voice interrupted. "Leading Crewman Williams yer, Lieutenant. Your panel is flashing."

"What for?" Parbold demanded irritably, his experiments were important.

"Well I dun rightly know, Sir. But it's got an interesting beat an' lots of pretty colours."

"What does the display say?" Parbold revised his question.

"It's all in Klingy stuff."

Parbold sighed. He had forgotten that Williams was not by any stretch of the imagination clever and that he (Parbold) still struggled with the dubious command structures used by the Klingon sourced panel. There was nothing else for it, he would have to go upto the Bridge. 

The small guilty voice of his conscience told him that the Bridge was where he was supposed to be during his watch and not playing with his replicator. Particularly as the Captain was on an away mission.

The much larger part of his mind told it to shut up. There was little for anybody to do when the ship was orbiting Maggies.

  


One look at his communications panel on the Bridge was enough to have Parbold struggling for his Klingon to English pocket dictionary. He had never seen the messages either. 

Normally the few sub-space messages Tuttenbeck received were on one of three topics: Private messages for Chief Catchen, 'Your supplies are here'. The second were, 'Where the hell are you? I want to kill you,' from irate fathers or husbands trying to contact Lieutenant Corbett. The third came very occasionally from Star Fleet for Commander Geroff. The first type had to be forwarded immediately and with great importance, he had learnt. Star Fleets presence in this sector revolved around Chief Catchen and several dozen of his immediate family. The second could be dealt with as convenient. The third were dealt with suitably. Every fifth message was acknowledged to stop complaints, all the rest were deleted.

Whatever it was, this message was not one of those. Twenty minutes of literal translation came with:

_"Cowardly. Putac Roosevelt, It is a good day to mad dog, snivelling worm watchers."_

Whoever had installed the communications devices aboard Tuttenbeck had less idea of how to translate Klingon and Federation speech than Parbold and his little book, and an even lower opinion of Starfleet. The only thing he could be sure of was that it was a Star Fleet code. A few more translations gave a more understandable result, though somewhat less desirable.

It was going to need input from the Captain.

"Parbold to Commander Geroff."

"You should have come down with us, Lieutenant!" Geroff was in a pleasant mood. Maggie must have cracked her 'Special Crate' of real Earth Rum. "What do you want?"

"I've had a Star Fleet distress message thingy, Sir," Parbold explained.

"I doubt it worries us. We pick up all sorts or rubbish out here thanks to the boundary," Geroff opined. "Just chuck it in the bin."

"This one was in our sector," Parbold began to explain. "From the USS Roosevelt. They think they are under attack."

"That the new tub they launched a few months ago?" Geroff asked mildly, still uninterested. "Supposed to be the fastest, most modern and powerful in the fleet? First in a new line of infinitely capable superships, that will launch the Federation into the exploration of worlds beyond its boundaries. To go in peace, where nobody has gone before'. Multiple Phasor and Torpedo mass launching turrets, able to dispense sixty torpedoes in a single salvo. Capable of taking on any threat the galaxy has to offer, upto and including the massed ranks of the Borg fleet single handed without the crew gaining a scratch?"

"That sounds like the one," Parbold agreed, visualising the public announcement of the ship's launch the previous month.

"Then they hardly need us then. Do they, Lieutenant?" Geroff suggested reasonably. "All we have is one dodgy tube and a phaser bank that overheats!"

"It was most specific, Sir!" Parbold protested. "They are appealing for help from any ship in the sector."

There was the sound of a muffled curse, then Pour it back in the bottle Mag's. I'll take it with me. The spare Gumbo too, might as well drop it off,' before a much crisper. They've probably broken a fingernail on some touch screen. Still, I suppose we ought to go and look. Get us lined up, Lieutenant. But don't tell them we're coming.

  


Red alert and maximum warp, Sir? Corbett asked hopefully.

Good grief. No! Geroff gasped. If they are in a shooting war, the last thing we want to do is bimble up when they are still throwing torpedoes about. You never know what the damned things are going to hit.

We should be prepared and have shields in place, T'Rizz recommended.

Very well, Geroff sighed. But no flashing lights and klaxons! Mr Parbold, you had better go and help Gorsh to bring them up.

Parbold was surprised by the order, until he remembered that on some older ships the shields were controlled from Engineering. All the same he had thought that even the Tuttenbeck would have had that simple modification done at some point in her career.

He was far more puzzled when he arrived in Engineering.

There was a light flashing on a control panel and Gorsh was peering at it short sightedly. 

I am a warrior! Gorsh announced drunkenly turning to meet the Lieutenant. To prove the point he took a swipe at the console beside him with a hyper-spanner, and missed. I should not be wandering the ship like a candle bearer!

All we need to do is activate the shields, Parbold placated, wondering what should prompt the strange behaviour from the Klingon.

Gorsh looked at him curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. he demanded ominously. We shall start at the back.

He handed Parbold a heavy set of gloves then led him into a long cubicle that ran behind the main power distribution panels.

You will pull the red handles. I will pull the blue ones. The operation must be completed in sequence, Gorsh decreed.

Mystified, Parbold gripped the first of a dozen large red metal levers and pulled it down until it engaged with the contacts with a heavy clonk and brief spark. Then watched as Gorsh followed with an equally large blue one. What happens if we don't do it in sequence? he asked.

Silently the Klingon gripped the next handle and pulled.

There was a flash as half million megawatts of power suddenly found a new path to travel. The lights went out a moment afterwards, swiftly followed by a wailing scream and a crash as crewman Williams, halfway down the companion ladder lost his footing in the sudden darkness.

There was another flash as the engineer returned the handle to its starting place. Perhaps the lights go out? He suggested as light was restored.

And if we lose a shield? Parbold screamed.

We cannot lose a shield. The circuit isolators have welded shut, Gorsh admitted, a thin pawl of smoke hanging over him. It is why we must manually divert power.

It was with a whole lot more circumspection and care that Parbold finished the task of pulling the remaining handles.

  


Captain Harry Kim leaned back in his reclined Captains chair feeling very embarrassed. He was the Captain of 10million tonnes of the Federations newest ship. So new the doors still squeaked. It was the most powerful and capable in the known galaxy and he had goofed.

The simple 'arrest a criminal' task handed down from Star Fleet, had become a nightmare. The minor task, even in comparison to normal shakedown cruises (especially Voyagers), had led to a four day streak across the heavens into part of the Federation he had not known existed, until now, and into a short single sided battle, his ship on the receiving end. Nor did he have the excuse of having been whisked down the plughole of some temporal anomaly, mass abduction by aliens, or even interception by some fabulously powerful and threatening alien entity. Not even Admiral Janeway would be able to get him off of this one. Things could not get worse, he decided.

He was wrong about that as well.

Things were about to get a lot worse.

There is a vessel approaching, Captain, Lieutenant-Commander Bridges announced formerly from the tactical station.

Not a Ferrengi? Kim asked hopefully.

He was relieved by the negative answer. It bears a Federation beacon, USS Tuttenbeck, Sir!

Never heard of it, Kim said in relief Put it on screen.

Perhaps Star Fleet had a deep space tug out this way hauling a mining rig, Sir? Bridges suggested hopefully, obeying the command.

There was a stunned silence.

What is it? Kim asked at last, twisting his head this way and that to try and find something identifiable amongst the twisted wreckage that appeared on the screen.

I think at least part of it may be a Miranda, Sir? Lieutenant Gwadol suggested uncertainly from the Conn, peering at it backwards from underneath his arm.

Perhaps they've tangled with Gor-rath? Another voice suggested hopefully. A statement that allowed the occupants to relax in a little more comfort. Somebody else had been battered as well.

We are being hailed, Captain, Bridges interrupted, replacing the unconvincing view of the outside of the Tuttenbeck on the viewscreen, with the just as unconvincing view of the inside of Tuttenbeck's bridge.

Who, or what are you? Kim stammered at the balding figure of Geroff, relaxed in his Axminster covered chair.

Oh. Hello, old chap! Geroff responded happily. If you must know. We are the law in these parts. Now just what seems to be the problem?

Kim was flummoxed. He had thought the signs of scorched and torn hull plating would have been a fair give-away of the problem. Then took a second look at the external view of Tuttenbeck and decided that Geroff could just possibly think that was how a ship looked in its prime. Half our weapons systems are burnt out. Our tri-axial warp drive is out of line, he began.

Geroff challenged. I'm sure you can fix it?

Weapons, yes, Kim admitted. Not the drive. It needs a yard!

Geroff glanced at an out of sight monitor. Don't see why, he said after a moment. It looks as if you've still got everything, even those great flapping nacelles, he said referring to the variable geometry warp generators. Just asking to get knocked off, they are. Still I suppose we can lend you our Chief and Senior Engineer, as you are short of skills, mmhh? Besides, there is no Fleet tug within a week of here that can tow your great lump.

And you can go after Gor-rath? Kim asked hopefully.

Who's he?

Klingon spy, Kim replied. He stole the plans for the ship. He has got to be stopped!

Before Geroff answered, he picked a PADD from the coffee table beside him and peered at it. Let me get this straight, he said waving the PADD at Kim. It says here, in the official press release. Your weapons, shields and sensor systems are three times more powerful than a Nebula class ship and your top warp speed is in excess of Warp 10. And you are asking me, in a vessel that couldn't burn your paint and can only just break Warp 7, to chase around after a thief, bringing him to justice. Remembering of course that you've chased him all the way from Earth in the Federations most powerful ship and he thwacked you? Not much of a plan is it?

Kim had to confess silently it did sound pretty dumb, but put a brave face upon it. And you've a better one?

Much better, Geroff agreed, I leave you here and you can have another go when he comes back! Win or lose you'll be out of my patch. There are only a couple of ways in and out of this sector at warp speeds and you are in the middle of both. There are the Tramp routes, of course, but it doesn't sound as if he's stupid enough to try them. And if he is, then I'll pick up his remains in a year or two. How does that sound?

It did not sound like a better idea at all to Kim. How long before he's back? He managed through gritted teeth.

Geroff shrugged. Couple of hours? He hazarded, before turning to address the pockmarked lieutenant at the helm. Now I think as we've managed to get the shields up, we will dock to transfer the chief. I think docking port 4 ought to be a reasonably close fit, Lieutenant.

Before the screen flickered back to the external view of the Tuttenbeck, Kim distinctly saw the young dark haired officer at the rear shut his eyes, cross himself and offer a prayer, as the helmsman gave a gleeful cackle and cracked his knuckles. Docking port 4. Aye, Sir!

The whole bridge watched mesmerised, as the Tuttenbeck turned, banked and otherwise manoeuvred to bring her aft most docking hatch in line with the Roosevelt's. An operation that for some reason required the Tuttenbeck to pass close underneath the larger ship's saucer, just infront of her engineering section, then up, whilst turning, to finally back onto the main docking port located on Roosevelts neck. A manoeuvre that was complicated enough without the Tuttenbecks obvious inability to travel forwards in a straight line.

They're gonna hit! A tense voice squealed as Tuttenbeck's warp nacelle scraped the deflector dish.

There was an audible sigh of relief as Tuttenbeck lurched clear again for another pass.

The sound of the red alert klaxon had never been welcomed before.

  


Did that chap just shoot at us? Geroff asked mildly, pointing at the ominous view of a Klingon Vor'Cha cruiser. Only one of Tuttenbeck's periodic and unpredictable sideways lurches had saved them from being impaled upon by a salvo from the warships disruptor cannons. Rather unfriendly of them wasn't it? After all it's the big lump of scrap behind us they want. Tell them that would you, Mr Parbold. Tell them I'll buy them a drink if they stop. If they don't, we'll stop them with our secret weapon.

What secret weapon? Parbold asked in alarm.

Just do it!

I don't think they are particularly interested, Sir, Parbold observed a moment later, gripping the console tightly as three more bright stars emanated from the Klingon. 

Once more Tuttenbeck launched into a shuddering side step, this time prompted by the far less predictable Corbett.

Said something about, 'Sit still and die snivelling Targs'. What secret weapon, Sir? Parbold asked again.

Geroff sighed before hitting the baby alarm that formed most of Tuttenbeck's intercom. How is the gumbo, Chief?

Warm and wet, Sir, Chief Catchen assured him.

Well start spraying it out the doors, Geroff suggested, then turned to Corbett. Now I want you to imagine that you knew how to fly a starship Lieutenant, he suggested patiently, and zig-zag across that Klingon's path.

Oh and by the way. Don't let them hit us! Geroff added as an afterthought.

  


If Parbold had been asked, he would have admitted he was confused. Gumbo's main threat lay in the vastness of Maggies servings, or at least so he had thought. Why Tuttenbeck should want to lay a thin trail of it across space defied his imagination.

Aboard Roosevelt confusion did not enter the vocabulary. The battered old wreck was leaving a trail of something dark brown and slimy from various openings, like some senile diarrhetic slug.

Vegetable oil, alcohol, saturated fats, meat by products, hundred-fifty types of seasoning, chilli peppers, onion.. Lieutenant Bridges diagnosis of the contents of the slime did not help.

It certainly did not meet the description of the secret weapon that Parbolds short discussion with the Klingon warship had suggested.

On top of that, the Klingon was continuing to approach, through the streamers of brown slime, with the obvious intent of finishing off the still crippled Roosevelt, having given up on trying to hit the a-fore mentioned erratic senile slug.

What are they waiting for? Kim hissed in exasperation as it came to a gentle halt less than 5000 metres away.

They continued to watch as slowly the lights on the warship started to wink out.

Geroff's cheerful voice boomed out. You should find them quite docile in an hour or so, when the emergency system runs down. So do what ever you wanted to do and bugger off. There's good chaps. We'll send Hammit's tug out after you when we get back. But if you've any sense you won't be here for that. Toodle-pip.

  


What happened? Parbold demanded as Corbett set course for home.

Geroff looked back over his shoulder at him and grinned. Ever wondered what cold gumbo is like? he enquired. Horrible sticky stuff. Gets into everything and glues it up solid. Takes weeks with a steam jet to shift it!

It blocked the Klingon warship's weapons, sensors and bussards, T'Rizz explained more clearly. They are blind and without power for weapons.

But shouldn't we stay to explain who beat the Klingon's. So you can be rewarded? Parbold protested in righteous indignation. They could say anything!

I hope they do, Geroff admitted. Can you imagine what it would be like with that plonker on my ship! Frightful. Far too straight for my liking. Fancy a drink?

  


  


  


21/03/00Tuttenbeck to the Rescue5 of 6


	6. WallEnd

**Wall-End**

_Parbold does a favour, Chief Catchen thinks he is going to be rich _

_With apologies to the BBC Light Programme. I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships._

_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

_Rated PG_

  


"'Ere. Who let 'em put all that lot in the way?"

Chief Bosun Catchen's indignant protestation, from behind the communications panel, had some validity, Parbold decided as Tuttenbeck circled her spiritual home at a safe distance. There were currently some twenty ships either docked or in loose station around the creaking starbase. 

It had been like this for the last three months, since Tuttenbeck had rescued the Roosevelt from the Klingons. Obviously Captain Kim had not done the decent thing and lied about how he had captured the Klingon renegade. The result was that Tuttenbeck's home had become a tourist resort. Whilst Maggies' and other hostelry's takings had gone up considerably, it had also meant Tuttenbeck had become the focus of some less welcome interest, as Starfleet remembered they existed.

It was also the reason why Parbold was sat in Geroff's badly stuffed armchair and the chief had taken his place at the Comms station. Geroff had been summoned by Star Fleet headquarters to give a briefing on the use of the strange new weapon, leaving Parbold as the only officer aboard that Geroff trusted enough to entrust his ship to.

The use of the part time food, fertiliser and weedkiller, Gumbo, as a non-life threatening weapon of mass-obstruction, was being taken seriously at Star Fleet. There was already talk of setting up curtains of the brown slime around the Earth to trap unsuspecting Borg cubes. 

Parbold felt sorry for Borg cubes.

Star Fleet had gone so far as to send a Starfleet tanker to hover over Maggies, specifically to syphon up the leftovers, much to the proprietors annoyance and taxing Parbold's diplomatic skills to the utmost. 

"Is no good. Peoples thinks my food is no good!" Maggie had rumbled her annoyance at her favourite and wincing Star Fleet officer.

In the end Parbold, for the sake of his eardrums, had threatened to dock with the tanker and it had departed to a more circumspect orbit around a dilithium moon, to pretend that was what it was interested in and not in weapons grade leftovers at all.

"I've found the way in!" Corbett clacked in sudden enthusiasm and pointed. "Between that research ship and freighter."

Parbold squinted at the gap. "It's not big enough!"

"Course it is!" Corbett asserted, cracking his knuckles. "I'll show you!"

Parbold had no idea why Corbett cracked his knuckles whenever there was a manoeuvre to be performed. If it was meant to help the pilot perform subtle manoeuvring, like those achieved by concert pianists or real pilots, then it failed. It usually heralded scratched paintwork, and overtime for Hammit's yard. He found himself leaning nervously to the right as Tuttenbeck closed upon the unsuspecting hulk of the research ship. "Corbett," he muttered nervously as the gap between them disappeared. Then more loudly, "Corbett!"

"Just a hint of left hand down," Corbett commented happily, punching buttons.

Tuttenbeck lurched.

The sound of chalk scraping a blackboard can unnerve the bravest soul. A similar squawk, when it is known that the thin plating that shields you from being sucked out into nothingness is being scraped away, leaves stains. Parbold now largely immune from all of those effects, caught a glimpse of faces at the other ships windows. They did not look brave. "Chief?" He sighed. It was going to be another of those days.

"Telling Mr Hammit now, Sir!" Chief Catchen assured him calmly. "And there's a thing. Nunky's tug is already there to tow them."

"There is a strange thing," Parbold agreed in resignation. "Amazing how he is always there when we ram something!"

  


Barely had the Tuttenbeck crashed into her docking pylon before the Captain of the research ship was charging through the airlocks.

"You cretinous incompetent nin-com-poop!" He screamed, his face purple with rage. "I'll have you all courts marshalled. Hanged, drawn and quartered. Pushed out of an airlock! You'll never be allowed on a starship again!" 

"Yes, Sir!" Cheif Catchen smiled at him dis-armingly. "You'll wish to see the Captain, Lieutenant Parbold, Sir? Follow me."

  


From a view screen in the Ready Room, Parbold observed the furious officer. The Captain was, he decided, somewhat larger than Parbold and looked upset enough to show it, let alone make an issue of the difference in rank. He was watching his Star Fleet career, such as it was, sliding into oblivion.

"Captain Flint, Sir!" Chief Catchen offered, showing the science ship Captain in.

"Parboiled! You cretinous, incompetent, nin-com-poop!" Captain Flint was in no less a rage than when he had stepped aboard the Tuttenbeck, though he was no longer purple or screaming. Instead it came out as wheezed gasps. Obviously Catchen had taken him the long way around. "I'm having this ship cast into the nearest blackhole I can find, with you blasted lot aboard it. It is not even fit for scrap!"

"But, but, bu! We had a fault in our starboard thrusters!" Parbold exclaimed.

"Fault! The only fault is in this blasted crew! We don't take kindly to it in Star Fleet Science Branch, I'll have you know. We've got some nice ones we use specially for the job!"

"Nice? Kindly?" Parbold queried uncertainly.

"Holes of course. Weren't you listening? Big ones. Boom! They go!"

"The Blackholes?"

"Things we throw in them. Don't you know anything?" The exasperated Flint explained. 

"But Science Branch don't approve?" Parbold suggested hopefully.

"Not approve! Of course we do!"

Nasty images raced across Parbold's mind. "I'm sure there is something we can do to help?"

"Of course there is," Captain Flint assured him. "Don't struggle. The bang is bigger!"

"I meant so you wouldn't want to make us to go bang!" Parbold rushed urgently.

Flint paused for though. "S'pose they could take that damned fool scientist Phew to Wally Station?" He muttered to himself, then brightened. "Yes. Yes. Take the scientist to the science observation station at Wallend. There is a big event there and he wants to see it. Then perhaps?"

"We'll do it!" Parbold accepted hurriedly.

  


"Are you sure about this, Sir?" Chief Catchen asked respectfully from the back of the Bridge.

"I don't see why not Chief." Parbold mused. "It'll only take a couple of hours or so. And if it is this, or watching ourselves go bang in a blackhole, I know which I'd prefer. Why?"

"Sure it is nothing, Sir," Catchen soothed. "But Cap'n Flint seemed a bit happy when he left yesterday. Even when he put his foot through the connection tunnel floor he were still laughing! And he did say there was something big going to happen and Chiefy Bosun Catchen don't wanna be there when it happens and nor do you, Sir."

The function of Wallend Science Station was to map an area of shifting subspace shallows in a zone known officially as Wallend, or more locally as Oops! for its ability to strand ships for no apparent reason. Taking scientists to the station was not popular, but nobody had heard of any starship captain laughing at the prospect of not having to go there. On the other hand, Geroff always made a point of ensuring Tuttenbeck was not available when the periodic visit by scientists was required.

"Perhaps it is because he wanted to go and watch some more 'Big Bangs'," Corbett offered cheerfully.

"Perhaps it would be wise to consult Dr Whew?" T'Rizz suggested calmly.

  


"You got it looking nice in here," Dr Whew squeaked cheerfully as he stepped upon the Bridge. "I like the floral wallpaper. Always said to Captain Flint his bridge would look nicer if he decorated a bit!" He chuntered happily, ignoring the incredulous looks he was receiving from the other inhabitants. "Where did you get it?"

"Get what?" Parbold asked trying to come into the here and now.

"The wallpaper. I was just telling Captain Flint his ship..."

"It came with the ship," Parbold interrupted the effeminate little man quickly. "We just want to know why Captain Flint didn't wan't to go to Wallend?"

"Oh no. It isn't Captain Flint that doesn't want to go there!" Whew answered happily. "Nobody does."

"Why not?" Parbold asked keeping his temper.

"It isn't very exciting." Whew explained mysteriously. "People spend years there and nothing happens."

"But Flint said there was something going to happen!" Parbold protested. "That is why it was essential to get you there!"

"Oh no. There is nothing exciting. Just a level 8 ion storm. Nothing exciting." Whew repeated. "The station has stopped launching buoys and I need to fix it before ships end up finding out how unexciting it is by getting stranded on the shallows."

"By the way, you do have working shuttles don't you?" Whew asked.

"I think so. Why?" Parbold responded carefully, he had never looked at the shuttle bay and was becoming wary wary about how exciting unexciting really was.

"Nothing really. Just that it is easy to go there and find out how unexciting it is without one."

  


Heeding the hint, Parbold had the Tuttenbeck brought to a halt well short of the target. He despatched Dr Whew, Corbett and T'Rizz in Tuttenbeck's one and only shuttle with the express order to be as quick as possible, then wished fervently he had sent Chief Catchen as well to look after the two wayward officers. Things had been going too well.

It was with some surprise therefore that he observed the returning shuttle some 40 minutes later.

"Well done, Lieutenant Corbett," Parbold congratulated the pilot as he returned to his station on the Bridge in his best Geroff voice. "Now as soon as T'Rizz can give us a course, we can get out of here before we are victim of the uninteresting ion storm. T'Rizz?"

"Would you like me to set the course Captain?" Dr Whew offered.

"Dr Whew!" Parbold cried in exasperation. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"Well we docked and your Vulcan lady got out. Then we set off again," Whew explained.

"Corbett, take the Chief and Dr Whew back to the station and bring T'Rizz back!"

  


Forty-five minutes later T'Rizz and Corbett retook their stations on the Bridge.

"Well at least it went without hitch this time," Parbold sighed, relaxing a little. "Get us out of here, please?"

"I don't know about that," a voice squeaked from behind him. 

"Phew!"

"We left the Chief behind this time!"

"Take the shuttle, Sir?" Corbett offered innocently.

"No," the sigh was one of resignation from Parbold. "That storm is less than 30 minutes away. We'll have to come back when it dissipates. Take us to OB's, nobody will look for us there and I need a drink."

  


"Ere! Where you going! Come back you rottens! Bosun's too young to be left getting unexcited!" The Chief's exasperated pleas fell upon deaf ears as the airlock behind him closed and locked itself firmly against the elements. On a view screen he watched it wobble its erratic path away.

"Come back you rotten swines!" He repeated weakly as in turn the Tuttenbeck also lurched off, leaving him alone. Then the storm closed and he could see nothing outside except the snow of interference. He continued to watch the snowy grains for a while repeating his plaintive cry and thinking dark thoughts of junior lieutenants left in charge of starships.

Finally satisfied that he was safe from some miracle of disastrous navigation that was going to lead to the imminent return of the Tuttenbeck, or anything else that might take it in mind to rescue an unexcited Chief Catchen, he turned away to explore the station more thoroughly.

The main laboratory area he was in was empty, apart from its obligatory range of assorted unexciting control panels for controlling the unexciting marker buoys that were the stations reason for existence. He checked it thoroughly, twice.

It was in the small store room, however, made Bosun Catchen very excited. It prompted him to explore the stations communication systems with enthusiasm.

A wizened old face glared at him. "Ebenezer Catchen, Honest Salvage Experts!"

"Nunky, you've never been 'onest in your life," Chief Catchen retorted.

"What-cha, Bo! What do you want? Whatever it is I ain't got it!" The cracked old face cackled as it broke into a toothless grin.

"Na then, Nunky," Catchen pacified. "What would you say to being the second richest man in the Federation?"

"Aye! What? Who's richest?" Ebenezer Catchen started with surprise.

"I am. Now shut the flapping and open those great cloth ears." Bosun Catchen retorted. "All you got to do is come and collect me from Wally Station and I'll give you 20% share of my 1000 litre hoard of purest un-pressed Latinum."

"How much is that?" Ebenezer demanded. "I want 80%!"

"30?"

"70!"

"60?"

"40!"

"Done! 30%!" Bosun Catchen caught his relative out in time honoured fashion. "Now when are you going to be here?"

  


"Glad you haven't worn out this chair, Lieutenant," Geroff commented happily, settling himself more comfortably in his armchair. "They'd want to replace it with one of those ghastly ergo-thingys. Back breaking I call them. So reclined you spill your drink. Not that they give out drinks at Star Fleet, with old Pudsey going on about how they are using sticky brown stuff as an ultimate weapon. Silly old fool. No idea what they wanted me for, so I left."

"Thinking of leaving things," he continued mildly. "How long has the Chief been on Wally Station?"

"Seven days," Parbold admitted. So far Geroff had not even mentioned the incident. "We haven't been able to get near since. The Chief kept reporting an ion storm in the vicinity."

"Oh did he?" Geroff mused. "Like the one you are still receiving? I do wish you had stranded Corbett or T'Rizz there, anybody but the Chief. He gets ideas! Well it can't be helped we had better get him back. Set course, Mr Corbett." 

  


"There is a second ship within range of the station," T'Rizz reported an hour later as the Tuttenbeck closed on its target.

"Don't tell me," Parbold stopped her with his own fit of inspiration. "It wouldn't be a decrepit tug would it? Perhaps belonging to Ebenezer Catchen, perhaps?"

"Affirmative." T'Rizz sounded surprised by the Lieutenant's psychic ability and looked back at him accusingly. "It has run aground on the shoals."

"Hail them please, Mr Parbold." Recriminations and protestations were forestalled by Geroff's order. "Ask them if they are unexcited enough for us to tow them off?"

Chief Catchen's desperate voice responded in short order. "Hello Tuttenbeck. Get me away from here!"

"Ah! Hello Chief," Geroff greeted the chief personally. "Are you sure you would like us to pull you away? You keep telling me you wanted some free time?"

"Just get me off of this tub, Please, Sir?" Catchen pleaded. "You know Nunky is as bent as a Ferrengi promise. You can't even play cards against him and not be cheated of at least three aces and what he can do with a pickled egg, even after he has eaten it, there are things that even the best purifying can't cope with! Please come and get me?" 

"Stands to reason. Where there is one Catchen, there is bound to be another trying to fiddle him." Geroff observed softly, then spoke up more loudly. "Well I suppose I could risk my ship to rescue you. But it has got to be made worthwhile, Chief?"

"Anything. Please Sir!"

"How about 1000 litres of pure un-pressed Latinum, less say 10cc's for Nunky for keeping you company?" Catchen suggested.

"Latinum?" Parbold asked in a strangled voice from the back of the bridge.

"But I haven't got none!" Chief Catchen protested.

"I'm sure you haven't," Geroff agreed. "You probably lost it all to Nunky. But of course I don't see the point of risking Tuttenbeck in dangerous shoals. I'm sure you'll be released in a few months?"

"It is a by-product from producing the buoys," Geroff explained for Parbold's benefit in the intervening silence. "It is used as a catalyst for the replicators, but there is always a surplus. So Science Branch periodically ship some off to do whatever it is they do with it. That is why we have so many Ferrengi in the area. They know it exists, but not where or how to get to it. Do you want some, Mr Parbold?"

"Science Branch won't miss a few hundred litres. Mind, the moment you try and convert it you would disappear under a never ending barrage of begging Ferrengi, crooks and beggars about their poor mothers twanging screws. You would never be able to go to an honest bar again in your life, if you could get out the door of your quarters! We'll ignore the destruction of the Ferrengi economy and civilisation, it doesn't really exist. And," he added with a smile, "that I would have to have you shot."

"No, Sir!" Parbold stammered.

"Jolly good," Geroff encouraged with a toothy grin. 

"I'll talk to Nunky," Chief Catchen responded at last. "Beam it to the cargo bay,Sir?"

"Just enough to keep the wardroom stocked please, Chief," Geroff instructed. "The rest you can empty into space, without the bottles?"

"Yes, Sir," was the glum Chief's only response.

  


It was a glum looking Chief Bosun Catchen that returned to the Tuttenbeck. 

"Almost out of here!" He bemoaned to a slightly tipsey Parbold some hours later. "Never have to look at a Star Ship again and it wouldn't matter. Just that old fool couldn't drive straight to save his life!"

"Well better luck next time, Chief?" Parbold offered cheerfully. "Just think of the twanging screws complaining about their mothers?"

"Sir?"

"Just get us another drink?" Parbold suggested.

  


  



	7. The Review

Fleet Lark The Review 

_In common with every major organisation Star Fleet has meetings involving their senior leaders, it spells trouble for Tuttenbeck. Guest stars one Admiral Kathryn Janeway_

_I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships._

_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

_The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun. _

_Comments good, bad or indifferent always welcome at ray. K_

Every organisation has a need for a periodic get together of its senior management to plan the future, Star Fleet is no exception. The senior members are ensconced in a board meeting, in as much as they are indeed meeting and they are bored.

"Well get on with it!" Admiral Mahoney, Admiral Commanding Star Fleet, president of the board, demanded, "I'll go boom if we don't get this over quick!"

"Yerrs! Yerrs! BOOOM they go! Bigg'ns best!" Admiral Dumart head of Science chuntered happily in agreement.

"What do?" A puzzled Admiral Can't (Accounts) asked. He was new to the post, only just promoted after the mysterious disappearance of the former (and Vulcan) Director of Accounts on a routine science mission. Suggestions of the term 'heroic' regarding the disappearance had been more than matched with ones of 'stupidity' for having gone at all.

"Black ones are best!" Dumart extolled enthusiastically ignoring the question. "White ones go too! But just not the same!"

"Can't we just get on!" Admiral Honda (Materiels) demanded.

"I'm trying to!"Can't protested. "Just want to know what goes boom?"

"You don't yet," Mahoney assured him. "Wait your turn!"

"No it isn't!" Admiral Wayte (Human Resources) protested.

"No point waiting," Dumart declared with conviction. "You can't get on them, or you'll go BOOOM too!"

"Hit him somebody!" Mahoney demanded. "Blasted fool has had too much excitement for the day. Can't?"

"I haven't had any excitement," Can't protested. "Certainly nothing that goes boom!"

Honda leaned forward and actioned his commanders order, smacking the Accounts officer with a sharp swing from the minutes PADD. Can't slumped on to the desk unconscious.

"Not that idiot. The other idiot!" Mahoney snapped.

"Sorry, Sir!" Honda apologised. "I'm afraid I haven't got another set of minutes to hit him with!" He added looking at the broken remains of his PADD.

"Use Can'ts?" Wayte suggested.

"Never mind," Mahoney sighed struggling to get the meeting on line again. "As the idiot is sleeping, I'll have to brief you. Everybody is on budget, with the exception of one ship. Some damned local barge called Tuttenbeck, which costs us as much in repairs as the rest of the fleet put together!"

"Why not just replace the ship?" Honda suggested innocently.

"Not the Tuttenbeck that we are repairing," Mahoney observed drily. "It is damned indestructible! Item finished. Now, last item, this confounded Janeway woman. Why can't I just give her to Dumart to go boom with?"

He immediately regretted it as Dumart took up the chant. "BOOM! Yers! Yers! Make her go boom with a big black 'un!"

"With respect, you can't do that, Sir!" Wayte protested.

"She's mine, I can do what I like with her!" Mahoney exclaimed petulantly.

"But there are still questions about Admiral Sharck," Admiral Wayte explained, "and Janeway is actually a public hero."

"Confounded woman gets lost swanning around with a bunch of foreigners for umpteen years and everybody thinks she is a hero," Mahoney ranted. "Should have been bunged in the brig for the rest of her natural."

"Why not give her Tuttenbeck to sort out?" Admiral Honda suggested thoughtfully.

"We can't do that, she's an Admiral and the Tuttenbeck is a barge!" Mahoney protested.

"But we could make her Admiral of the sector?" Wayte observed. "There is a vacancy and there is nobody stupid enough to take it?"

"And if she happened to go boom voluntarily?" Honda cajoled.

"Brilliant idea, that man. I'm glad I thought of it!" Mahoney roared. "Get the orders cut. Meeting finished, bar is open and Can't is paying. Teach him to go to sleep in my meeting. Besides he's got the credits."

"Chief! Chief! Where are you?" A breathless lieutenant Parbold demanded.

He was breathless because he had to run round three decks of the Tuttenbecks crooked corridors and a leaking docking pylon to get to the Chief Bosun Catchen's shore-side lair, or more correctly known as Stores USS Tuttenbeck. That it contained little to do with a star ship was no surprise, little of what was aboard Tuttenbeck had little to do with Tuttenbeck, other than the fact it was securely bolted down where something that should have belonged there wasn't. But the Chief's store was currently an alladins cave of wonders. Parbold did not dare to investigate too closely.

"Oh hello, Sir? Just doing some exercise are we?" Catchen greeted him cheerfully from behind. "Just so happens I've got an excellent device here that will get your muscles toned to perfection, but without the exertion." He waved at a crate that was adorned with a picture of a strange frame with swinging arms and weights.

"We've got an Admiral arriving to do an inspection," Parbold gasped, explaining the reason for his unaccustomed exercise. "She's arriving in two days."

"I've known all about that for three weeks," Catchen admitted. "Nothing to worry about. They take a swift tour around the ship, the Captain gets 'em drunk, they go home promising a new ship, then forget they were ever here when the hangover goes."

"How do you know about it?" Parbold demanded in horror. "It was a captain's only secure cypher!"

"Well it just so happens." Catchen explained, "that a cousin of mine works in Star Fleet Headquarters and he was just passing the door of the boardroom and sort of over heard when they decided. But it was another cousin at Resources had to create the order to send Admiral Janeway here." He beamed at the incredulous lieutenant.

"The one we have to worry about is the other visitor," Catchen confided.

"What other visitor?"

"Mrs Geroff, Sir! I've got Williams straightening out Mr Corbetts pad for her now."

"The Captain isn't married!" Parbold exclaimed in confusion.

"He has a very happy marriage," Catchen assured him. "She lives on Earth and the Captain is happy."

"So what is wrong with her?" Parbold asked with a resigned sigh.

The chief pulled his ear thoughtfully. "Well it's like this, Sir," he said, "You know how wives assume their husbands rank plus one?"

Parbold hadn't, but wasn't going to admit to it. "Yes?"

"And the Captain has been passed over for promotion at least six times?"

That at least was reasonable, Geroff was old to be a lieutenant commander, "Yes?"

"Mrs Geroff hasn't." The Chief finished.

Admiral Janeway shrugged at her dress jacket persuading it to fit just that little bit better and show off her Admiral insignia and headed for the passenger pontoon. For the life of her she could not envisage the reason why the captain of her Star Fleet transport had refused to seek out her new charge. The result was that the Star Fleet transport ship was docked with a range of civilian cruise ships and Ferrengi traders, about as far from the Star Fleet births as it could get without leaving the station. It also meant that she had not seen the object of her visit. Nor had the subject appeared at meal times, after the crew had discovered she was supposed to be taking control of the sector. She had been in Star Fleet as something other than Admiral long enough to know this behaviour was probably not a good thing. But meant she was no wiser than the basic Star Fleet briefing: She was assuming control of a sector containing some fifty mainly farming and trading colonies on the outer most edge of Federation influence. Bordered by a magnetic field known as the Boundary that nobody had yet managed to breach. The sector was broadly divided into three by various anomalies, each was patrolled by a single ship. Of these the area patrolled by the Tuttenbeck was the largest, containing some thirty of colonies and furthest out; which was why there was a functional, if old, starship as opposed to the simpler patrol vessels used elsewhere. That few larger Federation vessels ever visited was put down to the area being largely dull.

"Good day, Admiral." She was greeted cheerily at the foot of the passenger disembarkation companionway by two men; one a middle-aged, balding tramp in a second-hand uniform that claimed him to be a lieutenant-commander. The other was a much younger and immaculately dressed lieutenant..

"I am commander Geroff, this is my second in command, Lieutenant Parbold," the voice continued without pause. With some distress she realised the voice belonged to the tramp.

"You didn't see a woman wearing half tonne of filler, voice that breaks glass and an attitude that suggests park warden while aboard there did you? Just that I understand my wife is aboard?"

Caught off guard and rendered speechless all Janeway could say was, "No?"

"You sailor type!" A strident command came from the top of the companionway. It wasn't a voice that would break glass directly, Parbold decided, seeing his Captain look up the companionway expectantly. But they might do so at command.

"Ah! There she is!" Geroff declared happily. "I'll just go and rescue her. Don't worry about your clobber, Admiral. A Mayak will collect and deliver it for you. Mr Parbold, take the Admiral to the Wardroom and answer her questions."

It was not a voice that needed rescuing either.

A speechless Admiral Janeway allowing herself to be guided away by the lieutenant had barely walked fifty metres when she faced her second surprise. A black coffin with yellow stripe, ridden by a small green imp variously cackling and screaming '_faster, faster, left, faster, faster_' rocketed past, less than 500mm above her head. The deepest source of self-preservation she possessed had her diving for the floor.

She looked up accusingly at the strangely unperturbed lieutenant.

"What was that?" She demanded, finally finding her voice.

"I think it was My'Kys," Parbold tried to explain, "One of the Mayak couriers. Surprisingly they don't maim or kill anybody and they are the fastest way to move heavy things around the station. He'll have your things aboard Tuttenbeck before we get there."

"What are Mayaks?" Janeway demanded. "I've never heard of them!"

"Smelly," Parbold admitted. "Small and green too, but mostly smelly. They don't appear in the 'Fleet references."

Admiral Janeway said nothing more and made no signs of recognising the Tuttenbeck until after her third mug of extra strong recuperative coffee in the wardroom, when she suddenly demanded. "How long have you been here Lieutenant?"

"Fourteen months, one week, three days and nine hours," Parbold, who still kept careful and optimistic note of such pointless trivia, recited immediately.

"And you do not consider this place strange or unusual?"

There were a great many things that Parbold considered both strange and unusual, but in deference to his Captain's wishes he sought a specific question. "Anything in particular, Ma'am?"

"This ship?" Janeway demanded. "The saucer is not supposed to be shaped like a boomerang and although I am not totally familiar with this model, I am sure there are turbo lifts to transport you from deck to deck. It shouldn't need three laps of the ship to get from the entrance to the wardroom?"

Parbold thought about this. He guessed that Star Fleet had briefed Admiral Janeway in the same way he had, but the old woman was not as completely out of things as she had appeared on first contact. "It is an unusual design," he admitted carefully.

"And the lifts?"

"We have some," he agreed equally carefully.

"And I suppose people riding on the back of torpedoes is normal too?"

"Pardon, Ma'am?" Parbold asked innocently.

"I was run down by a Federation Mark 4 photon torpedo within 30 minutes of getting off the transport," Janeway snapped. "I saw the part number when it flew overhead. Somebody from this ship must have given it to him. It must be from this ship, because no self-respecting starship comes within twenty light years of here. So you must have done it!"

"Uh! I don't think it is a case of approving, Ma'am," Parbold squirmed. "It is a racial thing."

"A racial thing?" Janeway pounced on him like a hawk.

"It says in the Prime Directive that we are not to interfere with what differing races consider natural, but to encourage the differences. The Mayak's racial past-time is to try and kill themselves?"

"That is not what it means!" Janeway back-pedalled.

To forestall any further awkward questions in the silence that followed, Parbold placed his own. "I'd like to volunteer," he began.

"Oh? What for?"

"I've got this plan to prevent the Borg from entering the Alpha Quadrant by blowing up their Transwarp network," Parbold explained. "Chief says the Federation has a new secret armour design that is almost impervious to Borg weapons..."

"I have not heard of it?" Janeway interrupted.

"Of course not. It's a secret, Ma'am!" Parbold placated quickly. "Only the people who invented it and the Chief know. And the Quirl has told us about a secret drive attachment that can create a wormhole the Klingons have. I plan to use those..."

Janeway looked at him strangely. "Are you related to the green imps?"

After her fourth coffee, Janeway began to feel more composed and eased to her feet. "I am not waiting for Commander Geroff to return with his wife. He should have put her off when he heard of my inspection. I'm starting now. Your Ship's Engineer is in Engineering?"

Parbold, who had been drifting off with the thought that he had not seen coffee like the admiral's since the replicators had been replaced, came back to reality with a start. "I, I, guess so," he stammered.

"I'll start there."

Janeway headed for the door, then her shaken confidence had better thoughts. "You had better escort me."

"Is it that crack there, Lieutenant?" Crewman Williams, hanging head first over an array of power conduits, welding torch in hand, gazed back past his feet towards the engineering officer.

Gorsh, for his part, peering down from the engineering balcony, grunted approval. On cue there was a flash, bang and scream as Parbold and Admiral Janeway appeared from the turbolift.

"You are having a problem?" Admiral Janeway demanded in concern, the smell of scorched flesh quite prevalent.

Gorsh nodded dangerously. "There is a crack in a main power line. It arcs when the door opens. It is being repaired."

"Is he injured?" Janeway asked in dread. She watched the Klingon engineer's oversized head with as much concern. It was at least fifteen times too large for the body and when it moved it set off a sort of sympathetic action within the rest of him.

Gorsh looked down at the unfortunate crewman, "No, he is used to it," he said dismissively, then bellowed. "Now you are down there, you can free the power relay for phasor bank two."

"Repairs like those are supposed to be done in a yard," Janeway rallied, "No, don't nod. I think your head will fall off if you do!"

Gorsh shrugged an acknowledgement instead, which set the head wobbling dangerously.

Rather than comment further, Janeway began to prowl the engine room, her actions followed by the engineers head revolving on its narrow shoulders. She found watching it follow her became an object of morbid fascination, completing three laps of the room to see if he actually turned to prevent his head unscrewing. It meant she almost missed the sections obvious feature.

"Warp field generators are supposed to be pairs," she said.

"There are two of them," Gorsh observed. "Two is a pair."

"But they are different sizes!" she protested gesticulating at the larger unit. "That is from a Galaxy. I don't know where the other one is from."

"A Ferrengi," Gorsh affirmed.

"How do you maintain a balanced warp bubble?"

"That is for the Bridge to arrange," Gorsh opined. "As a warrior I am reduced to ensuring there is power."

"I know what Geroff is up to," Admiral Janeway muttered defiantly to Parbold as he tactfully ushered her into the second turbo lift. "I won't break!"

They were met by Geroff himself in the wardroom.

"Ah there you are," he beamed at them cheerfully. "Everything to your satisfaction Admiral?"

"No they are not," she snapped. "I watched an incompetent crewmen fall into the power duct trough carrying out a repair that should only be done in the most controlled circumstances. Your engineer is top heavy and I doubt if he knows the principles of how engines work, merely you need two of them!"

"Ah yes! Williams and Lieutenant Gorsh," Geroff accepted happily. "They are rather unique in their own ways."

"Now," he continued remorselessly. "I've gathered the troops on the Bridge and my wife is busy having the Chief re-arrange the furniture in the cabin, so I thought you might like to see the ship put through her paces?"

"Paces?" Janeway queried doubtfully, then shrieked. "Paces? Paces! This ship is dangerous docked. In space it must be lethal!"

Geroff looked both disappointed and hurt. "Sshh! She'll hear you! Besides nothing major has broken off for at least 5 years!" he protested. "Better than some newer ships I can mention. Look. I know the ship is a bit old and shabby, but they were so looking forward to showing you what we can do? Still... Mr Parbold, you had better give Corbett and T'Rizz the bad news."

Janeway knew moral blackmail when she met it. Not everybody could be as bad as the two she had met in Engineering, she reasoned, Parbold seemed almost intelligent, if shifty. But it did not stop her falling for it. "Very well," she accepted in resignation.

Apart from the usual twang as Tuttenbeck released her moorings, the ship and Corbett performed faultlessly during the short trial flight. Even T'Rizz's short navigation course appeared to proceed without a hitch. It was as if the ship was saving it all up for some future point.

Admiral Janeway, sat in the Captain's armchair Geroff standing dutifully beside her, said nothing during the whole flight, just stared at the floral wallpaper and assorted furniture.

The future point, Parbold realised in horror, was the return.

Flushed by the unusual success, Corbett offered Janeway the opportunity to test for herself how well the Tuttenbeck performed.

If in her whole career she had ever made a mistake, accepting this was Admiral Janeway's biggest.

After a few moments confusion, looking at the unusual control panel, she made a few experimental prods at likely looking buttons in what would normally be the right places and the ship drifted daintily towards the dock. "Nothing could be easier," she declared confidently, impressed by the sensitivity of the controls. "The ship actually seems to work!" She gently thumbed the button that would bring the whole ship to a halt as it came into range of the docks magnetic grabs.

Tuttenbeck leapt forward, smashing through the pylon.

In desperation, Janeway, tried to reverse away, to find Tuttenbeck surging sideways and into the station concourse, sticking fast and refusing any other command. Only Hammit's yards years of patient reinforcing of the station structure against the Tuttenbeck's wayward habits prevented something far worse.

"What happened?" She quavered, face as white as a sheet.

"Some of the manoeuvring jets are a little sticky at times," Geroff explained helpfully. "Something to do with the ship being a little old. I'll enter that in the accident report. In the mean time you appear to have knocked our mooring off and we will have to wait for Hammit and Nuncy to free us, so we might as well adjourn."

Shaking visibly, Admiral Janeway rose and staggered toward the lift. The Bridge crew watched and waited in silence as she chose the same lift as she had arrived on, then listened to the thin wail as it plunged to the bottom of its shaft.

"You should have warned her about the lifts, Lieutenant," Geroff commented reproachfully.

There was a new face in the Wardroom that evening. Parbold guessed it was Mrs Geroff.

She possessed, Parbold decided charitably over his second drink, a classic beauty, he had seen pictures of women such as her in some art galleries. Not tall or fat, but big boned and endowed with a heavily whale bone reinforced bosom that creaked like a galleon under full sail when ever she moved.

"And what do you do?" Mrs Geroff demanded, regally eyeing him.

Parbold, overwhelmed by the desire to touch his forehead, stammered, "I, I'm the ships communications officer."

"Is it interesting?" She boomed with the feigned interest of those that know it isn't, but wish to suggest they are interested anyhow.

"I suppose so," Parbold admitted, touching his forehead again. He was forever grateful to Commander Geroff when he appeared, a pale looking Admiral Janeway appeared to distract Mrs Geroff.

"And you are another one of Charles' little space friends?" Mrs Geroff was bearing down on Admiral Janeway with the inevitability of a landslide.

Admiral Janeway, who had travelled the width and breadth of the galaxy, faced terrors, problems, friendly and unfriendly natives in profusion, faced down and defeated the Borg with barely a quiver of her lip, broke in the face of the overriding superiority complex. "I am Admiral of the fleet in this sector," she managed to mutter before turning on her heel and marching towards Parbold.

"That plan you have?" she demanded. "I want to see it."

She did not wait for a reply, turning on her heel and marching out.


	8. The Incredible Battleship

Fleet Lark The Incredible Battleship

_The impossible has happened. Tuttenbeck has been ordered home for decommissioning._

_I proudly present USS Tuttenbeck, the pride of Starfleet and the antithesis of boringly efficient Federation Starships._

_The Startrek Universe is the property of Paramount, though they might not want this bit of it._

_The stories are my own and any other sad but kind person that wishes to join in the fun. _

_Comments good, bad or indifferent always welcome_

_Rated PG_

Geroff leaned forward in his armchair and examined the view of the unsuspecting red planet and assorted orbiting hardware ahead more with guarded wariness than any real hope. The four week voyage back to Earth was now well into its fourteenth week.

Even when he had known for sure where they were it had been: a/ Definitely not somewhere he wanted to be, partly because they had started shooting, but mostly because the planet was tee-total. And b/ It had been a lot further from Earth than if the Tuttenbeck had stayed at home and not bothered in the first place.

The feeling of impending doom was not helped a great deal by Corbett's cheerful proclamation. "Coming into orbit now, Sir. Wherever it is!"

"It is Mars!" T'Rizz disputed from her console.

"That," Geroff observed heavily, "is what you said at Orion 6, Trantos and Hepworth."

"That is logical. Small red planets look the same from space," T'Rizz explained with wounded dignity.

"We aren't being attacked yet." Parbold offered hopefully. Of the nine different planets Tuttenbeck had approached since leaving her generally safe home port, six had started shooting long before the planet in question had become more than an indistinct dot on the viewscreen. This always struck him as a rather mean spirited and anti-social thing to do, they had only wanted directions.

There were hopeful signs, a thin haze of smog visible even at the high magnification displayed on the screen suggested at least habitation on the planet, while the biggest give away was the large number of very large alien looking space stations that hung in various level of orbit.

"But are they talking to us, lieutenant?" Geroff asked mildly, reminding Parold of his purpose aboard the Tuttenbeck.

"No Sir," Parbold admitted after a few minutes. "But there is a lot of comms traffic from shuttles."

"What shuttles?" Corbett asked innocently. "I can't see any shuttles."

"CLANG!" The hollow clang, followed by several crashes and an ear worrying "Scrrreeeech" resounded through the ship.

"I believe the shuttles concerned were the ones that have collided with our hull," T'Rizz explained. "The current magnification on the screen is unable to show items close to the ship."

"Well it is not as if we are too small to see!" Corbett complained, "They knew we were here."

"If they didn't they do now," Geroff passed his judgement. "They say why the station isn't talking?"

"Not really, Sir," Parbold admitted. "It's the usual stuff, distress beacons, run away, that sort of thing."

"A larger structure has just passed inside our minimum focussing." T'Rizz appraised them of the next imminent threat. "I believe it may have been a space dock."

"Short range scans?" Geroff snapped. "Corbett, please try and miss it? Shuttles haven't got an excuse, they can see us and can move out the way, docks can't."

"Short range scans are temporarily unavailable, Captain." T'Rizz announced after thumping her console with more than normal force. "We appear to have a shuttle impaled on the sensors."

"Oh well. I suppose it will be knocked off again," Geroff sighed with resignation.

"Oh it isn't a problem," Corbett offered optimistically, "I saw it before it disappeared. We'll miss it easily!"

KERLANG! Tutenbeck jerked heavily.

"That was the other dock," T'Rizz pointed out impassively. "The one we have hit was closer and we have attempted to drive in through the side frames."

"Full astern Mr Corbett. Get us off it." Geroff sighed. "And please try and avoid it the second time, we have enough scrap iron without adding theirs. Who ever they are. Let's just hope everybody was too busy running away to notice?"

"That is unlikely," T'Rizz offered the next bad news. "Three larger vessels are approaching."

"Oh good. Perhaps they'll know where we are?" Parbold offered hopefully. "If I ask them nicely, that is?"

The intercom at Geroff's hand crackled to the sound of Chief Bosun Catchen's cough. "What did we hit and did we have to hit it so hard, Sir?"

"Shuttles, space docks, much the same as usual, Chief," Geroff assured him. "We should be coming free any moment now."

"Very good idea I'm sure, Sir," Chief Catchen encouraged. "But you might like to stop so somebody can free us. We've got wedged in whatever it was and are taking it with us, Sir. I can see the new dents distorting."

Geroff glanced quizzically at his pilot and navigation officers. "Well?"

"There is a tiny bit of a problem," Corbett agreed as the first torpedo exploded close by.

"WHAT WAS THAT?" The Chief's protest quite clearly sounded over the sound of groaning metalwork. "Abandon Ship!"

"Stay put, Chief," Geroff steadied. "It's just the locals celebrating our arrival." Geroff did not wait for an answer before rounding on his pilot. "Full ahead, Mr Corbett. Get us out of here. We'll have to take the dock with us."

"What about the space dock?" Parbold asked as Tuttenbeck struggled to set off with it's new addition. "Won't they want it back?"

"What, after we've bashed it and they've torpedoed it?" Geroff asked, thumbing the button of the baby alarm intercom. "Still you might be right. Chief?"

"Yes Sir?" the Chief's voice sounded distinctly muffled.

"Make a note to prepare a bill for salvaging the space dock we're running off with. Just in case somebody ever discovers this place."

"Can't, Sir. No PADDS in the escape pods!" Came the excuse.

"Well go and find one," Geroff suggested patiently. "And while you're about it tell Gorsh we'll need a good head of steam on those warp reactors."

"If you are really worried," he added kindly, as another torpedo struck the encircling station. "I'll let you take the escape pod with you."

"Your next guess please Trizzy?" Corbett asked as Tuttenbeck lurched into a slow warp. "Only another 150 billion stars to try."

Admiral Janeway was feeling pleased with herself. The report she had written after her inspection of the small part of Federation space that was officially hers to command had been such a masterful work of cloaking and distortion of the obvious that the best Rommulan cloaking devices could be described as obsolete. It had been hard work too; Words and phrases like: 'Incompetent', 'Useless', 'Raving maniacs', 'Pile of junk' and 'Not fit to plunge into a black hole to go Bang with', that had so liberally and easily flowed on to her PADD for the first draft had had to be painstakingly edited and replaced with new and more difficult to use ones like: 'Maximised potential', 'Dynamic', 'Difficult operating conditions', 'Interesting concepts in practical Warp dynamics' and 'Innovative use of alternative strategic resources'. She had been particularly pleased with the last, she'd been able to use it at least three times, though the thought of the Tuttenbeck's bridge and the floral wallpaper it described still made her shudder.

Star Fleet had been impressed too. So much so it had decided that, given Tuttenbeck's 200 years of good service, she should be decommissioned in favour of a newer ship and crew. In Admiral Janeway's opinion the decision was 200 years too late for the crew as well. Still she had dutifully sent the order for Tuttenbeck to make her way to Earth for replacement.

Tuttenbeck was now six months late arriving and there had not been a single report of a sighting in the last fourteen weeks. The Admiral was allowed to feel pleased with herself, if there was the remotest whiff of luck and righteousness in the galaxy, then that ghastly ship and her even more ghastly crew had disappeared altogether and nobody would ever compare the report and reality.

Her comfortable thumb twiddling thoughts were interrupted by the desktop screen coming alive to reveal the habitually red and jovial face of Admiral D'Lancy, Head of Star Fleet Intelligence appeared. "Ho ho! You signed for it, so you're in the muck, Janeway old Girl! He he!"

"Signed for what, D'Lancy?" Janeway asked in genuine confusion. She had not signed anything potentially dangerous in six months that she could recall.

Her own answer arrived at the same time as the D'Lancy's, though he was more eloquent and amused. "That ship of yours of course, Tootingcommon! Ha Ha!"

"Tuttenbeck!" Admiral Janeway corrected with a sigh. "I've not heard anything of her in three months. I had hoped..." She stopped herself quickly and started again, "I was afraid she might be lost 'All hands'. What has she done?"

"Ho ho! You should be afraid. Ha ha!" Mahoney agreed, his mirth showing no bounds. "We only think she's started an Intergalactic War. He-haw! Wouldn't want to be you at your Courts Martial! Ha ha!"

He hung up.

"I don't know anything about it!" Admiral Janeway gasped at the disappearing image, then realised that the display had been replaced by the equally red but rather more belligerent face of Admiral Mahoney, Admiral Commanding Star Fleet.

"Glad to hear it," he assured her. "But it won't do as a defence, so stop muttering to yourself and do something about it."

"But she's lost!" Janeway pleaded.

"Frost! Where? I'll have to get my tomatoes in!"

"No, I mean Tuttenbeck!"

"Oh do stop nattering, Janeway!" Mahoney snapped. "I've got ships coming in from all over the quadrant for defence, but you'll have to do something about it until they arrive."

Admiral Janeway could feel herself losing the thread of the conversation and tried to regain it. "About what, Admiral?" There was just a chance that they may not be discussing the same problem.

"The blasted alien battleship of course!" Mahoney exploded. "Been doing the rounds, it's already rammed a Vulcan research ship, two Klingon battlecruisers and a Cardassian space station. Now it's on its way here and you've got to stop it."

"But what with?"

It was too late, Mahoney, the line of thought exhausted had turned to other matters. "Thanks for the tip. I've got to give Environmental a torpedo for freezing my tomatoes. Bye!"

The screen went dead again, leaving Admiral Janeway burying her head in her hands. The Delta Quadrant was a lot easier to handle than Star Fleet.

"Thinks we lost 'em, Cap'n?" Chief Catchen called softly through the door to Geroff's quarters. "Not been hit by a whoosh gone all nasty torpedo for over 24 hours and Mr Parbold reckons he can hear Federation comms again?"

"Oh jolly good, Chief," Geroff congratulated, appearing at the door and shrugging back into his comfortable and stained jacket. "Take Williams and Gorsh with you and see what can be done about getting us off the wreckage."

"Ere Chief. Ever seen anything like this afore?" Williams asked after a very short glance around the dock's control room and finding no button marked 'Off', 'Open' or indeed 'Let star ships that poke their way in to places there are not wanted get away'.

"No Taffy, I ain't." Catchen was quite honest in his ignorance. "But if there is something not broken yet I'm sure you'll find a way to break it. Just make sure it ain't valuable first, cos I want it if it is?"

From the inspection port he could see the problem, like most Federation docks this one had long fingers that were used to form a static containment field so that parts of dismantled ships did not wander too far from where they were left. When Tuttenbeck had imposed its unwanted attentions on it the 'fingers' had been forced open, then dropped back when the saucer had passed through, trapping them by the nacelles and weapons bridge.

"Now," he said turning, "You run along with Lieutenant Gorsh and run the cable between the reactor and computer core like he tells you. You are going poke half million volts into the computers unmentionables to see if it has more life than you and lets us go?"

"Yeah okay, Chief." Crewman Williams accepted happily.

There are things that work slower than the mind of crewman Williams, tectonic plates possibly. "Ere Chief. Ain't that dangerous?"

"Yes, my son. That is why you are doing it," the Chief agreed.

"Oh."

Then a while later Crewman Williams ask softly, "Chief?"

"Williams?"

"You're rotten. Rottener than a stores full of rotten things. Just thought you'd like to know that?"

"Yes, my son."

"Think Star Fleet are in a bit of a flap, Sir" Parbold greeted the return of Geroff to the Bridge. "Must have nearly 30 ships looking for some alien warship. Seems it's been wandering the the quadrant and giving it a right good ramming."

"A bit like us you mean, Lieutenant?" Geroff enquired.

"Yes, Sir. But everybody knows us."

"And have they found this battleship?"

"They think so. Their converging on it... Oh dear!" Parbold's mind slammed like a trap on a key fact. "They're coming here, Sir!"

"Thought so," Geroff accepted coming to at least a moderately enthusiastic state of alert. "T'Rizz find a really nice big gravity source and put us on course for it. Black hole or a sun would be good. It is time we lost our baggage."

Three hours later Tuttenbeck was cruising at a slow full impulse and in the direct path of the large white dwarf star that had met Geroff's requirements.

"Chief and Gorsh are back, Sir," Parbold announced. "Williams is ready to poke the wire into the core as ordered."

"Jolly good," Geroff accepted. "When he does, just make sure you don't lose him. It would take years to train a replacement to be as stupid, even if we got one direct from Academy."

There is a lot of waiting in the Galaxy, or at least a lot of things that simply do nothing very much, until they suddenly and surprisingly decide to leap into action: Dropping apples on the heads of the worlds greatest mathematician so he can invent the cause of all mankind's spacial problems, gravity and a perfect excuse not to paint the ceiling, by pointing out it would drip paint on the wife's favourite persian rug. Or possibly dropping a very surprised space dock into an unsuspecting white dwarf star, which instantly registers its surprise and disapproval by exploding. Or may be an Admiral calculating if her pension will be enough to see her through forced retirement after Courts Martial and the video phone rings.

"Janeway. Capital bit of work by that ship of yours, Tumbleweed!" Admiral Mahoney announced.

"But she was lost!" Janeway cried in confusion. Correcting the Admiral did not seem worth the effort even in, or possibly because of, his obviously delighted or inebriated mood.

"Frost! Of course there was no frost," Admiral Mahoney bellowed. "Brought all my tomatoes in for it too. So it is still your fault. So shut up and listen."

"Yes, Admiral." She agreed meekly.

"That barge of yours, Tuttingdog. It got the enemy battleship. The fleet reports that it exploded and the only thing left is Tuttyfruity. Must have been fighting it for months too, judging by the damage. Absolutely marvellous show, real best of traditions stuff. Good bye."

Admiral Janeway glared at her darkened screen and cursed loudly and fluently.

21/03/00 The Incredible Battleship 5 of 5


End file.
